I’m having a duvet day, today... my second in a row.
I don’t take days off, but I’m going to learn to, after this.
I’m poorly... properly poorly!
The dort woke up with a sore stomach on Tuesday, and she had what we onomatopoetically refer to as the squits, the poor lamb. It’s horrid for her to come down with this sort of ailment, because, after a particularly unpleasant episode as a child, she now suffers terribly from emetophobia, so vomiting isn’t really an option for her. Fortunately, it didn’t come to that, and after a lazy day and a bit of TLC, she began to feel much better.
Sadly, by Tuesday evening I was beginning to suffer, and early on Wednesday the husband got up to hurl copiously. He got all his trouble over in one mammoth session, although he felt fragile all day. Me? Forty hours later, I’m still not in great shape. I’m still on clear liquids, everything aches, and I daren’t be more than one staircase from a loo.
There’s more than one downside, although, honestly, I could stand to lose a pound or two. This sort of illness messes with meds, work isn’t getting done, and it’s no fun at all feeling this horrible.
The worst thing of all, though, is that if I was going to take time off, I wish that it was to have some damned fun! I bloody resent that I’ve been forced to stop everything, that nothing’s getting done, and I don’t even get to enjoy myself. When was the last time that I took some time out for me? When was the last time I spent a fun day with the husband? Or the dort? Or both?
How can it be right that I’ll now spend time catching up on what I’ve missed doing these last couple of days while I’ve been sick? The truth is, it can’t be right, can it?
Gosh, I do feel sorry for myself, don’t I?
I tell you what, if I didn’t love what I do, there’s no way that I could do this... There’s no way that I’d put up with working all the hours that God sends and then using up my down time as sick days.
It’s funny what you’ll do for the love of your job.
Since the dort got home from college she’s been going back every weekend to teach classes on Saturdays and take classes on Sundays. By the time she’s paid her train fares and for somewhere to stay on Saturday night, she spends a lot more money than she earns, but she does it because it’s good experience, because she loves it, and because she’s loyal to the people that she dances with on a Sunday. She leaves home at eight on Saturday morning and returns at eleven on Sunday night, and it’s all go, non-stop in between.
To do what you love, you have to make sacrifices, and, honestly, apart from when you feel like shit, those sacrifices don’t seem like the end of the World. Of course, when you feel like I do, today, it’s a different story, but, tomorrow, I’ll be on top of my game, again, with a bit of luck, and I won’t come out here and snark at you all... Promise!
I’m going to cheer myself up by watching the dort doing a bit of dancing, second left with the purple hair. This from her end of year recital: