Never got out of the house at all; got to the bathroom a few times, the kitchen twice, the front of the living room in the evening (still wearing my robe like I was The Dude), but, otherwise: in my room, resting. I didn't shower, either.
I'm not sick, far as I can tell. I was unmotivated. Probably my least-motivated day in two months.
The most I did was read — a bit of John Gardner's Grendel, a bit of Neil Gaiman's Stardust, the rest of Nnedi Okorafor's LaGuardia — and at day's end watch the 1975 film Cooley High. I first wrote that "The most I could do was read," but that's wrong: I could have done more. I decided not to.
It didn't feel great to be so inactive, honestly. There was stuff that I could and likely should have done, so of course blowing off that stuff means I'll have to do that stuff later, lack of motivation be damned. And there's only so much time I can spend in bed before I start to get sore, and I hit that point last night (and was still at that point this morning).
People with chronic health issues, of course, deal with this all the time. Sometimes people have so little energy that just showering and eating can leave them depleted; they can't do more than that, on that day. And they deal with this on many days. I don't. I was wallowing. It helps for me to be honest, about that and other times I done up short.
I'm already ahead of all this today: I got out for a short walk then I showered. I scrubbed well.
And now I hope to be more productive. But yesterday I actually said, "I'll take the L."