One Day in 1962

So I am sick.  I have muscle aches and chilblains and I am sitting at my desk at work grateful for only having 2 emails I had to deal with and that I am not being pushed to be uber-productive.  I want to be productive, but today, I will take it.
Last night, I woke up shivering after taking a bath to calm the whole firehead situation.  At 1am, I spazzed about and hurried to get myself wrapped up in flannelly pants and a hoodie and then, a few hours later, woke up again, sweaty and stressed by how hot I was.
At least it feels like it has coalesced into like an actual ailment or something now and not just this feverish feeling settled over me for no reason.  I want to help with the cleaning on Sunday, so I definitely hope that this obnoxious impediment is handled by then.  Back to par and then, you know, exercise and diet and the second quarter suddenly come into focus.   I just need and want to get well today.  The power of positive thinking.
It might be alright.  Maybe.  It might just be okay.  Nobody knows.  There have been a few positive signs in the firmament, I just need everything in hand, signed, concrete before I will get my hopes up.  I’m learning not to hang myself on high places unnecessarily.
See, I don’t know.  Maybe there will be a letter this weekend.  I will survive again if there is not.  I told myself that if this is the way it goes, more sadness, delay, and otherwise non-progression, I will be okay.  I didn’t want to even write about it until there was an update.  This is not an update, but I am looking for anything to kickstart my ability to write this because I want, when I finally get home, to just pass out.  Or eat some soup and just pass out.  Some combination that leads to me healing and getting back into a position where I care that my face is pink-hued and pincushion-like, if not, all the way back to normal.
Other things: I do have to go back to the old job for the old co-worker’s retirement party, the lady who is so memorable, you could have a single conversation with her and be mentally altered for the rest of your life.  And I knew her for eight years, for highs and lows and all sorts of crazy shenanigans.  Every day was something, some panic, some delight.  Like when she told me not to go to the park because they were installing public Wi-Fi and that would probably make me infertile.
And I haven’t talked to her in six months.  I haven’t thought about it either.  I don’t know, I have to go back and meet with my mentor, too, and hear about frustrations and complications with her extrication from the event.  But that’s only fair, you know, just a response to modern living and being caring towards others when they’ve gone to the effort to show they care about you.  Even if the way they show that caring is incredibly weird.

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