Part of the problem is information. It's everywhere, and it means that even if I decide to lounge in my pajamas for half a day and wallow in tissue and pity, I can still take in information that is seemingly unrelated, even if I'm not capable of stringing together a few words into a coffee break read for you.
This morning is the case in point: A cup of tea from my Darling Husband brought bedside was the harbinger of a Day Off. No, said he, they can sort bugs without me, I’ll drive carpool, you stay in bed and rest up. I was too tired to put up a fight, downed the tea, and resumed snoozing. Upon awakening, I had only to reach over the side of the bed, where the aforementioned Darling Man had placed my laptop. Once the wireless bars lit up, I eventually learned that life was marching on (I read the comics before the headlines), that I had somehow once again managed to miss all but one of the films nominated for best picture by the Academy (and that was only because they have doubled the number of nominees), and that Ani in England had had a bowl of oatmeal five minutes prior. You would think I would be more compelled by the TED lecture posted on sharing data on medical conditions or the news item that a citizenship request for a man who required his wife to wear a burqua was denied by the French. But I kept coming back to that lowly bowl of oatmeal.
And so I ventured out from under my warm quilt to the kitchen and found it. There, behind the instant variety that lures Little One out of his own lair, next to the tub of homemade granola: the yellow paper bag that made the trek from the Olde Country, Irish oatmeal. Which explains that steaming bowl of warm goodness that is warming my belly far more than the hot water bottle ever could.
