When I was a child, I wasn't thrilled with having a January birthday. It wasn't warm enough to do anything nice outside, though I had a few ice-skating parties, and come high school the occasion usually coincided with first-semester finals (wow, those are hard to remember). But as a general principle, I love my birthday. I genuinely don't understand why people feel anything but delighted about them.
Sadly, this year I wasn't in a state to enjoy 'my' day, because I fell victim to a nasty cold (or flu? How do you tell the difference?). So my week looked something like this:
Sunday: Cox the men's outing for two hours in the freezing rain. Immediately followed by rowing in the women's outing (thankfully no longer raining).
Monday: Everything's fine, la la la... Go to bed. Oh crap, that's a sore throat. Try to sleep... mostly fail.
Tuesday: 6:30am alarm for morning outing. Row. Come back to note from neighbor implying that I let my alarm go on for too long and it disturbed her in the wee hours. Rage. That night: wake up repeatedly, paranoid that I've missed my alarm.
Wednesday (birthday): 6:30am alarm for morning outing. Row. Try to nap all afternoon. Dinner/drinks with friends at the pub. So nice to see them, even if I couldn't speak very much. Sleep like the dead.
Since then, I've been resting assiduously and working my way through Doctor Who. I'd only had a passing knowledge of the new series, catching the odd episode here and there, but they really did a stellar job with the actors they picked. Thinking back to the original series doctors, I suddenly had a vivid flash of memory: leaning up against my dad on the living room floor as the swirling visuals flew by to that distinctive theme song. Good times. And with the last of the junk making its way out of my body, I should be back in good form in a day or two. Thank goodness!
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