9.25.2012

100.5 internal temp & roasting cabbage

You learn things about yourself when you're under house arrest due to an incessant fever.

     1) You learn how much you like sleeping. In my case, I realized that if I'm not sleepy, it's near impossible to make myself fall asleep. This is a conundrum when all of the strolling in the sunshine I wanted to do was out of the question, since the general understanding was that the less physical energy exerted, the better. I read a lot of articles instead.
     2) You learn to appreciate how substantial food is. Most people eat too much. Multiple studies have shown it. I've found it out by ordering one meal at a restaurant, splitting it with my fiance, and still feeling stuffed. When you're sick, food counts. Little bites, little sips. Flavor is shocking.
     3) You learn to appreciate the importance of an aesthetically pleasing home. It has been a hard-sought goal to get rid of anything in my apartment that is not either a) highly functional or b) incredibly beautiful. (Still holding out for a suitable bed replacement since the air mattress decided to grow a tumor.) I've got a whole suitcase now full of clothes that have sat unnoticed for over a year, and there will be more added to that. Streamlining is crucial as well. I need my bank to stop sending me paper after paper after worthless piece of paper, since I only look at my bank account online anyway. There are too many boxes of security-sensitive documents. Unsightly things. Lots of things into the rubbish bin. Someone else will be happy with my forgotten clothes, and I'll be happier without them and with the extra storage space.

Cabbage was roasted and cookies were made. Things were cleaned. Books and many (MANY) articles were read. Notes were taken for future reference. This was all very spur-of-the-moment. Cabin fever will do that to you.

There is a bruncheoning at the Skirvin's restaurant on Sundays that will give you lots of food and unlimited mimosas. Let me know if you'd like to join me on one of these jaunts. I may make one once per month or half-month, because who can pass up brunch and mimosas in a large hall with ceiling-high crimson velvet curtains? Not this gal.

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