Cooped Up

We all crave a holiday during the work week, a lazy day, a day of complete and utter self-indulgence, that is guilt free and hassle free and work free.  But are there really ever days like this?  There's always a worry knocking on the back of your mind; a preoccupation, if your mind is ticking at all.  That fantasy of a duvet day, when granted, gets old real fast.

Yes, there are days where one might feel that they can't face the world, or probably what's more likely they cannot be bothered.  You hit SNOOZE again and again calculating the bare minimum of time required to breakfast and dress and suddenly it blinks upon the screen.  You crawl, roll and drag your tired limbs off the mattress and onto the hard floor. If you're lucky, you stand and you stay upright.  Back to the grind, forever longing for a few extra moments of dreamlike ignorance, but the spell is broken.

While a duvet day might seem like complete bliss, the novelty does wear off.
Yes, sleep is wonderful but when you feel fully refreshed and you are still bed-ridden you might find that you want something.  Yes, there are days when your body succumbs to the woes of nature and a cold, flu or some other viral infection leaves you with just about enough brain power to prevent you from inhibiting basic functions. 1, 2, 3, breath! In, out. Repeat.

Afternoons spent in a doctor's waiting room are a nerve wrecking affair.  If you are not seriously ill you might want to reconsider the germ sauna that is a doctor's waiting room.  The sickly pallor of the staff is enough to make your run for the door.  It could never be a good idea, inserting your vulnerable self into a pool of incubating illness.  What is more doctors make me nervous.  I worry.  I'll admit it and sometimes I'll suffer the unknown rather than run the risk of having my worries realised.  I have always viewed doctors as harbingers of bad news.  Terrible, I know.
My name or some variation if it is called over the loudspeaker.
Sprechzimmer 1
I step into the room and I see my doctor, spectacled and dressed in a white lab coat.  She is discussing something with another lady, possibly her colleague.  Her colleague leaves and my doctor swivels and faces me.  She is a middle-aged lady with a thick Austrian accent.
'Take off your clothes.'  She demands and I quickly acquiesce.
She hmms and aahs and asks me to turn around a few times.  She calls in her colleague and they both stare and mutter in german.  My hearts races.  Any number of serious illnesses rush through my head.
Umdrehen
I turn around again.
'We can solve this.'
She finally tells me and I let out a sigh of relief.  I gather my clothes and I dress myself.
'It's a virus.  Try to stay away from people.'

I leave and I make my way to the u-bahn, all the while aware that I am sowing the sickly seed of viral infection.  I try to avoid young children and pregnant women but wave after wave of pregnant mothers emerge pushing their baby buggies towards me. I find myself darting and diving side to side, tempted to cover my face.  Finally, the u-bahn comes and I squeeze on.  I count the stops and spring off when I have finally reached my destination.  I feel guilty. I hope I haven't made any of those commuters ill but I have braved the doctor and gotten my prescription.  Now begins the hard part, now begins my war with me.

I enjoy sleeping but I easily distract myself at night with some form or other of procrastination. I try to milk the last of my day, while foolishly robbing myself of tomorrow.  However, now I have to rest and I have been given a week to do so.  Frequent naps are in order and they are accepted with no resistance.  I am determined to get better.  Within days I am napping less and less until I am no longer napping at all.  I had been afraid I'd infect my flatmates but boredom throws caution to the wind.  I find myself loitering in the kitchen, craving natural light and the hint of human interaction.  As my strength grows so too does my boredom.  I make copious cups of tea, dipping into the myriad selection of herbals and blacks.  I flit between reading, movies and browsing the interwebs.  I wrap myself in my alpaca blanket and sob quietly to myself trying to remember what the outside world looked like, swinging like a pendulum between disgust and pity.  Then, I am Clint Eastwood wearing my blanket like a poncho on one of my many toilet runs because I spend my waking hours drinking tea.  I think about the things I'm going to do when I'm better. I think about making a list.  I promise myself I'll take better care of my health after this.
All will be promptly forgotten with the return of life.  I've been cooped up.  I'm counting the days till freedom.