If there is one thing worse than being sick it is being sick on the weekend.  There go all your plans, out the window at the speed of vomit.  All those precious hours of ‘me’ time become shivering, pain-filled hours of misery.  No Saturday morning at the coffee shop writing.  No bike ride.  No pool side reading, no floating about with a can of beer in utter relaxation.

Now, sickness does free up some time for reading, but a pounding headache limits concentration and diminishes enjoyment.  And don’t even think about writing – well, think about it if you like, but once you’ve got the keyboard in your lap the viral ravaging of your digestive processes will put a stop to any serious attempt at stringing together coherent sentences.

There are writers who continue to work even while dealing with serious, chronic, or terminal illness, not simply my trifling 48-hour bug.  I will stagger to my feet, find a hat, and then doff it to them.  Because, seriously, finding the concentration to write through pain and medication is an inspiring display of willpower.

But I think my headache has subsided enough to allow a stretch of focused reading.  So enough.  I’m sure I will be well by Monday, just in time to get back to the office.  Of course.  But I’ve kvetched sufficiently.  There’s always next weekend.