I’m writing today from the comfort of my couch at home. There is a book nearby, and a glass of water, and a box of tissues, and a baby blue fleece blanket, and a wide-screen TV. Through a combination of prolonged sleeplessness and massive amounts of cold remedy, I have achieved the level of serenity and detachment that I imagine is possessed by Macy’s parade balloons, as they loom benevolently above the streets of New York.
A sick day is one of the great under-appreciated pleasures. Not only is all work and strife turned over to a higher power (or at least to a co-worker), one has the house to oneself. You can watch what no one else likes to watch, listen to whatever you please, or just stare agog into space without anyone questioning your sanity.
The first day I ever stayed home from school with no one to nurse me, I discovered this love of solitude. Maybe that’s why I feel a sudden nostalgic urge for a grilled cheese sandwich, a mug of cream of tomato soup, and a black & white rerun of Gunsmoke. Looking all around, I find no one to say me nay.