Journal: Attack of the creeping crud, Day 7

I finally feel closer to normal, although I probably could’ve slept another hour, had the Feline Marauder not burst into the bedroom demanding breakfast as soon as she heard me launch into my first coughing fit. Those tight doors shrink up like nipples in a New England winter; in the summer they’ll expand so that I won’t be able to open or close them, but right now my weakling cat can unlatch them with her paws.

I think a trip downtown is on the agenda. I haven’t left the house in more than a week except to go snowshoeing in the Manhan Meadows a few hundred meters from the backyard. It’s a gorgeous day — all but one or two this week have been blue-skyed and beautiful, if frigid. And I feel better, even given the copious amounts of crud still lodged in my respiratory tract. But we needn’t get into that gory detail.

I must admit, though, to a certain inertia. Having settled so well into the couch cushions, a big part of me is reluctant to leave them. I have everything I need here: movies from two pay-per-view services plus about a hundred DVDs, more reading material than you can find in a Hilltowns public library, pillows, comforters, food, cat. What’s pulling me toward the center of town is boredom — if I have to eat that chili one more time, I will have an illness of another sort. I am, to put it crudely, sick of my own stink. A hot shower will cure that, but then I want to take my fresh clean self out to mingle with other human beings. I’ve seen no one but my landlords in eight days. The two of them are among the kindest, most caring people I’ve met in my life, they’ve created the safest, coziest home in which I’ve ever lived, and this is the most relaxing, healing sick time I’ve passed since I was a child in the house with my mother, who was a registered nurse.

But I’m ready to leave the nest and join the other stir-crazy, I’ve-had-it-up-to-here-with-winter New Englanders in the center of town, standing in line waiting for a steaming latte, stamping snow off our boots and giving each other those “yeah, we know how to do this” looks. Raising our eyebrows, waiting for June.

Trees in the backyard after the first snowfall, when it all felt fresh and new. Photo by Springbyker.

Trees in the backyard after the first snowfall, when it all felt fresh and new. Photo by Springbyker.


About springbyker

See more at: Feminist QBLTG Left activist grammarian & general crank. Love grassroots political movements, literature, independent film, travel in Latin America, bicycling, & good vegetarian food. I plan to write about all of these, plus being a recovering clutterer, writing, and saving the planet from suburban sprawl.
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