Recess.

I’m coming down with a cold.

Is it wrong that I secretly love being a little bit sick?  Not genuinely ill with the need for medical intervention, but a good case of the sniffles?  Love.  It.

I push myself slightly too hard in life.  I don’t give myself enough slack, enough relaxation, enough rest.  I do chores instead of playing with my dogs.  I clean the kitchen instead of sitting on the back porch letting the sun warm my face.  I always feel like I must be Doing Something.  Even while watching television, I’ll have a book or a Sudoku on my lap.  I manage my anxiety by not allowing room for it.

But a good cold?  It grants permission to let go.  A little cough, a runny nose, a nagging headache — I get an excuse.  I get to put on my oldest t-shirt and thick, fuzzy socks and my husband’s boxers.  I get to make a little bed on the couch; I drape a crisp sheet over the cushions and top it with a soft blanket and drag my pillow off the bed and I crawl in.  Little Dog curls up against my stomach and Big Dog comes by every hour to touch his nose to mine, making sure I’m still alive.

I get to sip gigner ale through a straw and snack on crackers with jam.  I sleep.  I watch TV until my eyes grow tired and then I sleep again.  I get forehead kisses and I use real Kleenex instead of blowing my nose with toilet tissue (a remnant of a frugal childhood). 

I don’t have to worry about chores or workouts.  I get to take a few days off and rest. 

I’m just going to be still.

And I’m probably contagious if anyone else needs a break, too.