Recently, I got sick. Really sick. I’m talking hallucination-inducing-fever sick. I’m talking waking-up-in-a-puddle-of-sweat sick. I’m talking I-can’t-believe-what-I-just-coughed-up sick. OK, I’ll stop now.
I feel better now, thanks, but for a few days there, I had to put everything on hold and just rest. I fought it for a while and tried to deny that it was bad, but then I gave in.
What I observed was that through the aches, pains, chills, and dizziness, I also felt something else: relief. I found myself relieved that my symptoms were such that I simply had to stay home and do nothing but sip water under a blanket on the couch while watching “Stomp the Yard” (aka “Drumline” with stepping). I felt like I had a good excuse.
Then I realized hey, that’s kind of ridick. Since when do I need permission to rest? Why do I need to feel a certain amount of terribleness before I will? What is wrong with taking a break?
I found myself glad to keep feeling pretty awful for a few days because it meant I was allowed to keep taking it easy. And that’s when I realized that I was truly sick. Because I can’t wait until the next time I’m very ill and can stay home and rest up again.
Originally posted April 3, 2012