Yesterday I was sick. Massive runs (TMI, I know) in the morning, followed by poor appetite (just a bowl of yogurt for the day), aches and pangs, and a general misanthropic mood in the afternoon. Of course I ignored it, cleaning the bar and working miserably in a cold office, with frequent crying jags.* I'm in such rude health (I blame the daily yoga sessions and the dog walks, and certainly cake once a day helps) that illness, no matter how minor, always shocks and even affronts me. Like, How dare you, body?! How dare you let me down!

Anyways the mother-in-law and the husband realised I was unwell and made me go upstairs to rest. I slept the entire evening away, despite the roar of a local farmer's association meeting downstairs in the bar, and I woke up feeling right as rain. Just a 24-hour bug. Giddy now: I want to walk up a mountain now. Run across the length of Ireland. If I could swim, I'd swim to New York City and back again. But I'll settle for cleaning the bar and more office work while singing at the top of my lungs along to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

*I like to cry because I think it's good for you, body- and mind-wise, like, the body is carrying all the burden of your sad thoughts, and what are tears but your sadness made material? Let it out, and some of that sadness goes too, and the body can behave better. Or so one hopes.

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