I woke up Thursday with a sore throat that slowly but surely progressed into full-on sickness, bad enough that I texted my father this morning to ask if he thought I should go to the doctor. My dad works in healthcare but is in no way a medical professional so I'm not sure why I insist on plaguing him with my questions, particularly when his advice is always, "It's probably a virus." (Except for the one time about five years ago when it was strep and his response was, "You are 26, who gets strep when they're 26?!") I didn't have a fever and then I found DayQuil under my bathroom sink which pleased me to no end because it's basically like crack. Anyway the sickness sort of made me happy in a strange way because it's textbook for me. Every time I start running again, for real, when I am excited about it and have a training plan, I come down with an annoying and drawn-out sickness. I like to think it is my body's way of accepting the fact that it won't have a chance to be idle for awhile and thus getting all illness out of the way early on. In an odd way it's like the final seal of approval on what I've been feeling lately, which is just that I want to be out there running.
But instead I spent my days off coughing, napping, sneezing, popping gel tabs and making simultaneously good and bad decisions. And watching terrible DVR'd TV. And writing lists and making plans, some related to running (I still don't know when the damn NYC Marathon lottery is, beyond "some time after April 23") and some not (I am so definitely not eating any more pizza until this summer, thanks to a severely un-tasty Domino's experience this weekend). And some more vague, including this message written on my kitchen chalkboard:
Working on that too lately. Open heart, fingers crossed.