I felt signs of it Satuday night, and bedded down hoping to get over it overnight. Nope. It at least seemed better by Sunday morning, and luckily I was able to have a low-impact Sunday where the most stress was from how back-and-forth the Seattle Seahawks-Houston Texans game was. Otherwise, I read, and stayed home.
Somehow that wasn't enough. Grr. I sounded awful this morning; I felt on the mend, but I certainly didn't seem so if I spoke. So I didn't. More resting and, when I could, reading! While judging how much mind power I had for certain topics: eventually I couldn't really get the Mary Oliver poetry I've been reading lately unless I had read each poem a couple of times, so I put it aside and started re-reading Stephen King's On Writing: a memoir of the craft. I dip into that book a lot, but I haven't read it in full in a while, and it's always worth revisiting. I think I'm ready to tackle Oliver again, and the collection is next to me as I write this so...
I feel good enough to be more active: a nice, hot shower, and now I'm doing laundry, including much of the stuff that's been touching me this weekend. The doors to my bedroom are open. I'm not (currently) dripping from anything. I hope this is it.
*sips more decaf tea*