It never fails. You take a sick day. You wake up the next morning and you feel pretty good. You figure you’ve got this thing licked. You go back to work, and it’s not so bad. You’re a little behind from the lost day, but nothing you can’t manage. You look up and it’s noon and time to eat lunch, so you get up…
And your cold rubs its hands together, laughs, and says, “I am far from done with you.”
And it keeps slapping you and taunting you and mocking you until you drag yourself home and you’re ready for bed by 8:00.
That’s how my day went. Except I’ve managed to make it to 9:00. Go me.
You’re never as well as you think you are after a good night’s sleep.
Stupid stupid sleep.
Tomorrow, cold. Tomorrow…