I have been sick as a dog this week. Miserable. Called names by coworkers like "typhoid mary". I don't know where I picked up this virus, but it seems to be making the rounds in Chicago. I got sick despite my recent clementine binge. Thanks a lot, Linus Pauling. It started as a ridiculously painful sinus infection, fever, chills, and general ick. Now that has cleared up, I have no voice. This may actually be worse for morale than the sinus infection. Naturally, I would like nothing better than a long, gossipy phone call to my grandmother.

My mother advised me to speak to no one, so that my throat and vocal cords can rest, but I cannot resist cooing over Winston. He has been quite the chum while I have been sick, a reassuring presence slowly taking up more and more space on the bed. My coworker Megan refers to this as "pillow Manifest Destiny". Winston has also been amused by the humidifier. He first regards the initial flumes of vapor rising from the machine, then hovers closer to hungrily swallow gulps of warm, moist air. Maybe he's a little under the weather too.

Normally, this sort of thing would provide me with hours of guilt free knitting in front of the television. A fever does not do good things for cognitive function. I taught my fair isle cardigan class on Wednesday and spent the entire class wrestling with my yoke. I was determined, though, and it seemed unwise to curse and angrily throw it in the corner as I would at home in front of students.

Other than that, there is really nothing interesting going on. Everyone seems to drag in February in Chicago. It's hard to work up much energy or enthusiasm. It's too damn cold. Zoe and I finally had dinner together last night at the Hack. We'd hoped to have a talky catch up session, but there wasn't much to say. We're tired and we want spring.


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