I caught a dread disease that’s been taking down my family one by one—it’s insidious because sometimes you just feel really tired rather than sick, sometimes you feel sickish but functional, and then there are moments when you just want to curl up on the couch and die. And you don’t get off the roller coaster for three weeks. (I know this because two of us have already come out alive on the other side.)
Since it’s the holidays, I could have more or less just ridden the whole thing out on the couch, but before I was struck down I took on a large, exciting editorial project and set the deadline for January 5. I love this large, exciting editorial project and want to do a fantastic job, and I set that accursed deadline myself, so I have no choice but to suck it up and get it done. In fact, I am going back to work on it the moment my Tylenol kicks in.
I’m counting on the fact that I’ve at least timed the plague so that I will be healthy again by January 1, because I would love to hit the ground running on about six different New Year’s resolutions. (It’s traditional: The last week of the year I fall off all the wagons—and completely to pieces—while simultaneously making plans for all the new wagons I’m going to climb on. Yay!)