dianaschnuth

On Friday, I had a discussion with one of my co-workers. Seems he’s only taken a handful of sick days in his three years at our work, while I’ve taken full advantage of any available sick days during my two years. He was absolutely flabbergasted when I admitted that I only had one sick day available to use — just ONE? — when he had literally weeks accumulated.

I’d had this idea that I should really start saving my sick days, just in case I need them. After all, using your last sick day is kind of like wearing your last pair of underwear before it’s laundry day.

Fast forward to this weekend: last night, I went to bed at a relatively reasonable time. Laid down, read a mindless Star Trek novel for a while, then turned off the light.

And laid there.

Awake.

I finally put a bottle of lotion in front of the minutes display on my alarm clock, so I wouldn’t be tempted to keep checking the time. I fell asleep for a while, around the time Aaron came to bed (sometime in the neighborhood of 4am), but I remember being awake and exhausted and uncomfortable at six-something.

By the time my alarm went off, I’d just managed to drift off into a dream-filled sleep. I turned off my alarm, got up (eventually), hobbled into the bathroom, and stared into the mirror for a while.

Am I going to work? I really should go. I have deadlines. But will I be able to concentrate? How much work will actually get done today? But I really shouldn’t use my last sick day. Again. But I feel like hell. I’m exhausted, and my back hurts from sleeping in some weird position, and my brain feels full of cotton.

And, as in all cases where I start arguing with myself, the Devil On My Shoulder was the victor. I went downstairs, fetched my iPhone, and emailed my boss, telling her that I didn’t feel well and was taking a sick day. And I went back upstairs and crawled back into bed.

But I didn’t sleep. Not well, anyway.
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