I am sitting here in a linen tunic and mismatched compression socks and mild to moderate weariness, in front of a north-facing window in 37F weather, wishing that I were asleep under a princess-and-the-pea stack of quilts, duvets, and random large animal pelts. And dreading what comes next: braving the garage to fire up first the washing machine and then the dryer. My knees are as chilly as my marble rolling pin.
I worked a bit of overtime this afternoon, to make up for my early log-off on Thursday and the two and a half hour staff meeting that ate a third of yesterday. One small corner of my work world has been weeded and pruned and dunged and deleted. (Yes, I am sneaking up on Jacob 5 in my scripture study.)
I did nip out for a few minutes this morning to pick up a prescription, but as far as groceries are concerned, let's just say that the people who deliver my Instacart orders have every reason to happy with me today.
One of the items I ordered was white bean chicken chili, which will go into the microwave shortly before I schlepp the linens off my bed and into the washer and will be my reward for adulting. I also ordered two sets of flannel sheets on closeout, online, and they should be here in time for next weekend. One set has small generic flowers, and the other has unicorns and rainbows, because pandemic + bronchitis + cellulitis + ennui = a fundamental requirement for unicorns and rainbows.
And I will fight (in English drive-by style)* anyone who says otherwise.
*"Oh Reginald? ... I disagree!"
I hear the Mandalorian calling my name.
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