I don’t get it.

I don’t feel appreciably different than I did Sunday at 2 in the afternoon,
or Saturday at 2 in the afternoon,
or even Friday,
much less last Wednesday…

Mood and energy say: read a bunch of books. In bed, so those books-that-want-attention? Not so much.

Sleeping numbers on the Fitbit? Seven to nine a night. So: not including these slow-down afternoons.

All that sleeping, and to what end? More sleeping? For why? Who knows? I don’t.
What if I called it symptomless flu?

In other hypochondriacal news, yesterday I figured out that I get to claim my place as a norovirus statistic. Thanks, Baby C, for my January surprise!