Portrait of the Artist...
For the past few days, I have been down and out with a very nasty cold. Patient “0” was my sweet little baby granddaughter, who for all her adorableness, hasn’t yet learned to sneeze into her elbow, or that tissues and Grandma’s shirt collar aren’t interchangeable. I spent a lot of time with her while she wasn’t feeling well, so I knew this cold was coming; I just didn’t expect it to hit me as hard as it did.
I am a Petri dish. One sneeze and I’m done. For years I have stayed away from anybody who so much as sniffs for a week before I have to travel or teach or run a long race. I’m not a germaphobe, but I know my history: either my colds are worse than everybody else’s in the entire world, or I am just a big baby, who doesn’t cope well with feeling under the weather.
Honestly? I swear it is the former. When I get a cold, I get an accompanying cough that sends people scurrying as if I were Godzilla torching Tokyo. And this time my cough was accompanied by a gross eye infection. Answering the door yesterday evening for the Halloween Trick-or-Treaters, I was a frightening spectacle in sweat pants, with red swollen eyes and a green complexion—no costume needed.
Today I am beginning to feel human again. There is no longer a light glowing in the corner of the room urging me to pass through. What IS shining is my studio lamp over a heap of half-finished projects with deadlines looming. Yikes! So, back to work for me.