On I went, out of the wood, passing the man leading without knowing I was going to do so. Flip-flap, flip-flap, jog-trot, jog-trot, curnchslap-crunchslap, across the middle of a broad field again, rhythmically running in my greyhound effortless fashion, knowing I had won the race though it wasn't half over, won it if I wanted it, could go on for ten or fifteen or twenty miles if I had to and drop dead at the finish of it, which would be the same, in the end, as living an honest life like the governor wanted me to. -Alan Sillitoe, "Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner"

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Cough. Sneeze. Complain. Repeat.

Yesterday, I quickly progressed from bad to worse.  The cold is making itself at home in my body, adamantly against my wishes.

Until further notice I am doing very little that doesn't involve watery eyes, runny noses, and what I suspect might be the upper limit of how much EmergenC one can take before overdosing.  So, I didn't go to spinning class last night and I'm certainly not doing anything besides the minimum requirements of my job today.

And eating ice cream.  That I'll do.  It's "feed a cold," right?

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