This should be called "Ode to learning how to relax again", but I don't know the proper literary form for an ode. I'm not the one who went to poetry school. My poetry sucks. I think it's reminiscent of all of those stupid pop songs I learned in Jr high- the ones I impress the boy with when I know all the words on Flashback Thursday (via Pandora, thank you). I used to have a memory for those kinds of things. They mattered to me.

Somewhere in college my memory for songs gets spotty. REM kills me. But then, if you can understand Michael Stipe, you are a stronger man than me, Gunga Din. It just didn't matter so much any more.

So I have to relax. It's enforced not only by being in the house with the cats, the tv, the books, and no people, but also by being on the backwards side of sick. Getting better with those deceptive bursts of energy, but knowing better than to fully trust them. Weaning myself off of the cough medicine. But not the decongestant.

I have to quit reflexively checking my email. There are no flagged messages there. None. There are no urgent fires to put out. No one needs me like that right now. And that has to be ok. Because it just is. And I should like it. But I have a sneaking suspicion that I have become an adrenaline junky, and the withdrawal is going to be a tad sticky. Again, need a support group.

And right now, more than anything I need to get dressed. Because even though I am still sickish, I don't know if I should slip into day long pajama wearing quite yet.