Traveling seems not to be good for one's health, much as I love it.
I got back Monday night, and by Wednesday afternoon I was thinking, "I am even more allergic to Gone West than I remember! This place is trying to kill me!"
Or, you know, I could have just picked up a cold on the plane. Or from the munchkins. (As I was leaving their house, my niece clung to me and said, over and over, "You CAN'T go! You CAN'T go!" My heart, it is broken.)
I knew it was a cold when I kept waking up last night because all the snot in my body had settled on whatever side of my head that was facing the pillow. My allergies are always better inside at night.
There is something vaguely satisfying about having a cold as opposed to allergies. I mean, I feel awful, but I know it will pass. I can take things for it. It isn't just the forever-and-ever low-grade ish.
Now I am off to happily take some ibuprofen and children's dimetapp and go to bed.