Symbols of a Decadent Past

I have been sick for the past few days, sick in a way that I truly associate with "sickness"--that is, lolling about on my bed moaning, attempting to get up and do things only to be overtaken by fatigue and driven back to bed where I pout until I fall asleep. This is interspersed with valiant quests for the couch in the living room, where I watch the Style Network until I want to throw things, then pout because I no longer have the energy to locate things to throw, much less throw them. I was told I have a virus, one that has given my joints and sinuses a very thorough spring cleaning, and now appears to be loath to leave.

I delivered my final project presentation to a board of physics professors in a hoarse whisper. It was, unexpectedly, a hit.

All drama aside, it really is one of the more decadent things ever, to spend five days in bed during finals time. I'm aided, of course, by my schedule, which was hellish up until the point where I woke up the morning after R's formal with aching joints. R was an angel, wrapped me in blankets and spoonfed me miso soup, and thoughtfully did not kill me when I complained.

I read Vogue when I couldn't sleep, and it led to some fantastically bizarre dreams--dreams of finding incredible designer skirts for $50, thinking quite lucidly to myself that no one in my hometown was going to know who this designer was, having said skirt yanked away from me by Anna Wintour herself, saying it made me look "stumpy," and substituted with a hideous origami-style $850 white blouse. I think I ended up wearing the skirt and told Ms. Wintour that I had a presentation the next day and I needed to look professional.