Much like the US Government does when they realize our forefathers set way too lofty a goal, I need to make an amendment to my resolution.
I had put forth the goal to write five posts every seven days but came to realize three things this past week that make this impossible:
1. I’m human.
2. Humans get sick.
3. Absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder. It makes the heart angry.
“Not a hallucination, Denise. And not the first time either. I think the good intention is there, but the follow-through is lacking. I find it is best to check in here every 3 weeks or so; then there might be 2 or 3 posts to read.”
In my defense, I was set to post every day this week to catch up with the 5-a-week average but came down with an awful stomach bug on Tuesday. Not only did I have no desire to write, but for fleeting moments, I had no desire to live.
One of the joys of having children is that you’re often last in line for whatever illness they bring home from school. This gives you ample time to prepare for the misery to come by getting all of your affairs in order and making sure your next of kin is prepared. Resistance is futile. If the bug wants you, it’ll get you, and even double-fisting cans of Lysol will do nothing to thwart the advancement of its germy little troops.
Had I been able to sit upright on Tuesday, I would have mentioned that even though I was under four blankets while dressed head to toe in flannel, I was shivering. Oddly enough, I was also sweating at the same time. My temperature was 101, my muscles ached, and my head felt like a balloon filled not with helium, but with a gelatinous pus comprised partly of model airplane glue. It would have been a short post because I was awake for roughly 26 minutes. Long enough to stumble to the bathroom to deal with the gurgles that turned out to be foreshadowing for the following day.
Had I been able to control the dizzies and write on Wednesday, I would have mentioned that Tuesday’s experience was heaven in retrospect. Like the sweater department at Sears the day after Christmas, my esophagus was busy processing all kinds of returns. Seeing how I hadn’t eaten anything in 24 hours, I believe my stomach was taking advantage of my unlimited return policy and sending things back from the late 80′s. While a problem in its own right, it was worse when my intestines felt they were missing out on all the fun. I managed to stay awake longer but only because I needed to be somewhat conscious to grip the bowl with either hands or buttcheeks.
Had I been able to write on Thursday, I would have said “Ahfaebafu ashz hurpdt durpt” because my body was just coming off an extremely taxing two-day wretchfest and barely had any energy or mental capacity left. I was exhausted. It had gone through the 48-hour equivalent of the Botulism 5K and it was run down. I was sucking down grape Pedialyte, my only saving grace and the best beverage on earth, while making mental notes to ask the Vatican to canonize it. I also spent the better part of my waking day trying to catch up on work since I was two days behind and looking backwards at deadlines. I went to bed early hoping for a return to normalcy on Friday.
Had I had time to write yesterday, I would have apologized for choosing bills over blogging but every waking moment not spent suppressing the urge to gurgleburp had to be spent on paying gigs. As a freelancer, my time is my only inventory. I don’t have paid sick days, vacation days, or personal days. If I don’t work, I don’t earn. Having missed nearly three days of work, my inbox was piling up and my outbox had ground to a halt. It’s not that I don’t love writing and it’s not that I don’t love each and every one of you, it’s just that none of you pay my bills. With a wife, three kids, and pets who require a quarterly replacement of carpets and linen, my priorities have to align accordingly.
I did look through my records to make sure I wasn’t missing a pay stub that warranted the snarky retort, and although it was totally justified, I came up empty. I had even zapped the ads that some felt were intrusive several months ago so blogging now earns me -$130 (yes, negative $130) a month. I don’t mind, it’s a labor of love, and someday I might even have readership in the triple digits, but it does sometimes require that the blog hit the back burner.
When the government finds itself unable to adhere to an original document as intended, it makes changes. And that’s what I’m doing. So that I don’t set expectations too high or execution too low, I’m changing it to THREE posts every week. It’s a far more reasonable goal and one I don’t feel will be a stretch to hit. Even if I go a few rounds with the grim reaper I should still be able to catch up when he takes his sickle and goes home.
Now. Seeing that this makes post #4, I owe myself two more over the next two days to be whole.
I got this.
This morning, I feel recharged and almost back to normal. While I’ve been on a steady diet of yogurt, bread, and Pedialyte the last few days, at least my stomach and internal organs seem satisfied with my choices. No returns or threats of exchanges just yet.
I apologize for the early amendment, but hey, rules are meant to be broken.
Especially by me.