Unwell

I have a favorite travel mug. It is shiny and keeps my commute cappuccino nice and hot for the full 14 seconds it takes me to drive up the hill to my office. However, this mug has a little trick to it: If I do not screw on the top exaaaaactly right, it will slosh commute cappuccino all over my front and I have to drive 14 seconds back down the hill to change clothes. And the tricky part is that the top can look just fine and well-screwed-on, when it actually is not.

I thought of that travel mug yesterday when I woke up. I was sitting on the bed looking at my toes and trying to figure out which one of them was which character in The Godfather. As one does. I was thinking that obviously the big toe is Don Corleone, the tall toe is twitchy Fredo, then the "normal" one is Michael, the little fat one is Clemenza, and the wee-wee-wee-all-the-way-home is Johnny Fontane.

And it was right then, as I was trying to remember Clemenza's name, that I realized I probably was not well. I didn't look particularly sick, although who can tell first thing in the morning? Ladies of a Certain Age do not wake up as dewy and fresh-faced as they did when they were teen-agers.

I didn't have any symptoms, if you don't count all-over aches and intense desire to crawl back in bed, and again, Certain Age so those are SOP.  Oh, and temperature of 101.8. 

The Godfather toes should have been a tip-off. I may have looked shiny and functional, but if I tilted my head just right I was in danger of spilling cerebrospinal fluid all over my front.

Back to bed.