I called in sick.
These days, it's harder and harder to call in sick. In fact, just about a week ago, the Times ran an article called "The Death of the Sick Day." Its subhead says, "For many office workers, “working from home” has replaced a day spent recovering under the covers." You can read the article here.
Of course, like any other day, I had a slew of calls I could have called into. There was a passel of emails I could have answered. And I might have done nine or a dozen other things if I were at the age where I was still interested in accumulating brownie points.
But, I was sick.
I was achy and feverish and my joints cracked like glaciers sliding off a coast into the sea. It was all I could do to throw a leash on Whiskey and walk her a couple times around the block.
I have prodigious powers of concentration, but when I tried to read I went over the same paragraph three times, or five. My head was as fuzzy as an old pair of woolen socks.
Around five, the fog seemed to lift, however. My cough abated. My vigor seemed to return.
I got up out of my chair and went downstairs to our building's gym and put myself through the paces. Nothing Herculean, mind you, but I sweat out whatever remaining sickness was in my blood.
It's late now, as I write this. I didn't have it in me to write any earlier.
But sickness or not, I try to write every day. And sickness or not, I've kept this going for about 12 years.
To quote Woody Allen--politically incorrect, I know--showing up is 80% of life. So, though I didn't show up yesterday, I will today.
That's what I'm best at.