In Which There is No Rest for the Wicked

At this point you’re probably all getting quite used to these Monday blogs. I really do intend to get back to Sunday blogging but when Sunday is split relatively equally between being at a dance event and getting home from that dance event… I can only hope you’ll thank me for holding out on the blog until after my 12 hour sleep marathon.

You may also recall a certain not so optimistic premonition being expressed last blog with respect to an impending illness. I do so hate when I’m right about things like that.

Now before you all get busy on telling me to “just take a sick day!”, let me explain. You see, I actually seriously considered a sick day but then I looked at the week I was crawling through and saw: one major grant deadline, one journal submission, three PhD theses deadlines, and a symposium that I was helping organize, and I put any notion of a day off quickly to bed. I did however cancel all of my evening plans so that my days went something like this: crawl out of bed 10 minutes before my train reached the station, cough for the first three minutes, throw clothing on in less than a minute, pitch a container of soup into my bag, and stumble my way to the station in the remaining five minutes or so. Sometime eight or nine hours later I’d find myself sniffling my way back to the train to drag myself up the stairs to my flat where I became the best of friends with my bed if not my blankets. Fevers are such a joy.

By Friday, the sinus congestion was no longer worsening which meant that my asthma was on the upswing. I did so well all morning with only a few coughs and a bit of icky sniffing, but then sometime around 2pm as I continued to take notes and timekeep for the symposium I was struck by so monstrous a bout of coughing that I had to leave the auditorium to suck air and make sure that my lungs were still in my rib cage where they belonged. So obviously, the instant the symposium was over and the debriefing was done, I set off for the train station on my way to a weekend of dance.

As I made my way to Penn Station I stopped for cold medicine and honey roasted peanuts, critical components to my survival of the weekend and my ingratiation with the lovely folks who would be putting up with my disgusting sick self both in cars and hotel rooms. I then climbed on a North Eastern line NJ Transit train and settled in for the hour long ride to New Brunswick. The train I caught wasn’t exactly new but it was comfortable and warm so I snuggled up in my corner with an oddly large “small iced capp” purchased under the excuse clause “but the cold will soothe my raw throat” and read about gin all the way. I’m currently reading a really interesting book about the history of gin in England but I suspect that reading it in public leaves people thinking that I’m either an incorrigible hipster or a burgeoning alcoholic. They can think what they like, it’s a fascinating book.

Upon arrival in New Brunswick I was met by a lovely Rutgers based dance friend with whom I was carpooling the rest of the way to Delaware. While we waited for the third member of our party, we both attempted to decompress from work over leftover Sichuan food. I’d say it was a partial success.

And then in no time we were out on the freeway zooming southwards through the night and I was attempting to comprehend the “for dummies” edition of complex numbers and their planes. It rather distresses me that I have not done single bit of math more advanced than high school calculus, especially when I am hanging out with brilliant mathematically minded people who could share so much with me about the beauty of advanced mathematics if only they didn’t have to wade through years of fundamentals to get me there. Somewhere between all the languages and dances that I’ve promised myself I’ll commit more time to, I’ve really got to make time for some maths.

By the time we made it to the event I was ever so slightly less illiterate in theoretical mathematics and we were all ready for the weekend. It was one heck of a weekend. I caught up with some of the lovely Boston folk that made my New Year’s Eve so special, danced my way until breakfast, practiced Mandarin, got some bracing competition results, and had some really good conversations and connections with a whole passel of really wonderful people. It’s amazing how much better a weekend can be when you set aside your single-minded focus on the dancing and acknowledge the fact that you’re surrounded by a massively diverse range of excellent people that you could be talking to as well as just dancing with. I’ve always been a late bloomer when it comes to social things…

So with far less sleep than a sicky like me probably should have had, I climbed over the whole massive rollercoaster of emotion that is a dance weekend and stumbled out the other end with an impressive cough and a whole lot of love for not only the dance but all the people that I’ve met through it.

Today, I am using MLK day to rest, attempt to recover, and do all the laundry that has built up between two weeks of work and a weekend of dance. At present the laundry is done, my room is clean-ish, and I’ve had 12 straight hours of sleep, so I seem to be on the right track. I look forward to wasting the rest of the day and waking up tomorrow morning wondering where my extra day off went.

R&R-ing with a passion,
The Salsa Girl


One comment

  1. RachelW · January 16, 2017

    Feel better soon! Love your blog 😀 xx


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