Feeling: Bedridden. mm.
Listening to: Wallflowers- Invisible City
Reading/Watching: The Hours

Today I amused myself by being bedridden. There's just something so symmetrical and classic about the word- bedridden.

Although no one's really bedridden these days, unless they're inches from death- it went the way of leeches and doctors who make house calls. I freely admit, the idea of staying in bed and whining for other people to get me things was tempting, but when necessity demanded, I still got up to get my own damn glass of water. If someone is physically capable of getting up and taking care of herself, I believe she should, despite sudden vertigo or headache or inability to breathe with mouth closed, even if she has to crawl (which I did at one point; standing up made my head spin).

Puppy was a sweetheart, though, and brought me water once. And some antihistamines, for which I rewarded him with Twizzlers.

I sat propped up on no less than four pillows, armed with candy, glasses of water, about a quart of hothothot herbal tea (my tongue and hard palate still feel seared), my Christmas-gift CDs playing (Norah Jones, Dixie Chicks, Badly Drawn Boy, Coldplay), a remote control to the light/ceiling fan (it is by far cooler than anything that ever existed), and a big lovely stack of books.

I read over 300 pages of White Oleader (it was fabulous), and now I've moved on to The Hours. Reading good authors always makes me think in poetry. Words like acrid, saccharine, tempest, and hauteur come to my mind easier than their more diminutive synonyms: bitter, sugar, storm, and snob.

Reading books with powerful characters always used to make me want to dive into the story, see what they'd think of me. Depending on my self-esteem at the moment, I usually thought they'd love or hate me, never anything in between. I was not the heroine of stories, in my mind; I was the supporting role that never materialized.

Recently I began to wonder why it mattered what these mythical characters would think of me. It's usually been that way, basing my self-worth on an averaging of what people said to or about me. Which, I needn't point out, is stupid. Who cares if Ingrid Magnussen would think me ugly and complacent? She was in jail for poisoning her boyfriend, for goodness's sake. I think in this case it had something to do with how very, very bright Michelle Pfeiffer's eyes were in that role, even wearing prison denim.

I should have kept track of how many ibuprofen I took today, though. I don't know if I can take anymore before bed for this C-clamp around my temples.

I also amused myself by making a mix CD of the songs that always make me sad or desperate, the ones I wail to when I need it (the list is posted on my LJ). Listening to it, however, cheered me up for some intangible reason. One can only cry for so long.

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