I am not sure if this six-days-and-counting bout of dripping nose/stuffed head is allergies or a cold. I have been telling myself and everyone else that it is allergies, because both of my jobs - doula and babywearing expert (har!) - basically consist of me putting my hands and breath all over people with not-impeccably-operational immune systems. So if I really thought I were sick, it would perhaps be ethically correct for me to stop putting my hands and breath all over the aforementioned people, and instead stay home, confining my germs to my immediate family. However, a pernicious side effect of not working is not getting paid. Thus, it behooves me to remain confident that I could not possibly be sick and have no possible reason to not work.
It it is a bit of a quandary, though, because I have a great deal to do right now - write a birth story, schedule a postnatal meeting, continue working on certification paperwork, write copy for my website, complete the several blog entries that I started but never finished in the past few weeks - and I do not want to do any of it. Instead, I want to lie on the couch and read the New Yorker. (Although lately I am sliding into one of my recurring periods of New Yorker fatigue, where everything in the magazine seems like trite, tiresome, arrogant babble. So maybe I don't want to lie on the couch and read the New Yorker as much as I want to lie on the couch and watch bad TV on Hulu.) If I were sick, such lassitude would be perfectly normal, even healthy. In fact, even as I write these words, I am feeling heavier of body and achier of limb, and it is dawning on me that this is obviously not allergies, but rather a cold, and a pretty bad cold at that. I can't quite believe that I have spent well-nigh a week proclaiming to all and sundry that I cannot possibly be sick because I feel perfectly fine. This is clearly rubbish; I am sick, and I feel sick, and I can't possibly expect myself to do any work, and now I am going to go lie down on the couch and watch bad TV on Hulu.