I spent the entire day in bed yesterday.
Yeah-- quit with the antics; it weren't that kind of bed-day... I've never been bedded down for near two days, as an adult, other than a bout of strep throat. And can't call this "sick", really, b/c I'm still not sure what that is. Nor what yesterday's cause was.
Slap worn out is the consesnus. I must be getting old, because that'd be a first also, though I can't say the last few weeks haven't been pyhsically, mentally, and otherwise all-around taxing.
The writer-swan is wont to gear up again; the gardener-bird awaiting warmer printemps (though has been working compost, clearing beds, and counting seed for the frost-tolerant plantings what should be possible in a few weeks. Already got peas started indoors; carrots and onions are, too, but no sprouting of those yet...).
De rigur Cygnus is recouping the only proper American way when the ambient air is measuring twenty on Mr. Farenheit's scale-- multiple hours of hockey-watching with matching frothy beverage consumerism.