A blistery arctic blast was set to invaded my part of Michigan. So, as to get some exercise in before it hit, for two days, I let me feet take me to the beach, stopping every so often to take a picture with my phone, and allow the chill of winter to crawl up my jacket. Focused, I found myself pushing through the sand, making every muscle in my body engage in the feat to go further and faster without missing a step or stumbling. Whether sidewalk or beach, my footprints are there, wearing down the road less taken. It’s my sure way to keep the sugar cookie and fudge from forming into that unwanted fat and parking in places that make curvy, curvier.
Those two invigorated charged days of exercise, walked me right into miserable. I couldn’t shake the chill. It clung to my bones at all hours of the day, seeping deep into me; filling my nasal passage with unwanted grossness to the point, my head felt like it was a kite, connected to my body by a thin string. Too weak to rise, I soothed myself, wishing the hand that was gently caressing my face, massaging my neck, and fingers that ran through my hair wasn’t my own. I was five years old again and wanted someone to take care of me. Someone…anyone…Bueller?(a)
Insert mom, who wasn’t feeling all that great herself, cooked a pot of homemade Wild Turkey Green Tea Soup with onion, celery, and carrots and had my dad bring it to me, when she heard how bad the chill had slapped me upside the head. But the first day of sequestering, the soup didn’t arrive. I was slightly disappointed, but didn’t let it get me down further into the pit of despair (b). Thanks to those close to me, their humor kept me laughing, which helped me keep focus on something other than how I was feeling.
When soaked sheets stirred me awake the next day, low and behold my fever broke, and the sequence of getting healthier began; just in time for the soup to arrive and my strength to come back. After a morning of washing everything I owned, miserable still lingered. It tired me out faster than I could change the sheets. There’s always that day you shouldn’t do anything, even though you felt like you could do everything. Day two and three were not this day, but I wanted them to be. So, here’s hoping for day four.
Sounds of wind and snow pound my bedroom window, but I don’t let it rouse me awake into winter’s tempted reality. Instead, I rise at my leisure, strong and with clear mind. This is the day to do everything and nothing at all. This is the day to focus on what I want to do tomorrow, because miserable has run its course. This is the day to unearth the Wild Turkey Soup for a second taste, adding my touches of fresh baby spinach and cracked pepper to make the soup better than when I first remembered it.
This is the day.
(a) Ferris Bueller’s Day Off; (b) The Princess Bride