Apparently.

I swear, to all that is chocolate, that I haven't slept this much since my honeymoon, when I had three consecutive days of sleeping for 12 hours each night. The last two days have been naught but a napping frenzy for my body, with a complete eight hours of sleep each night, and a three-hour nap in the morning after dropping Sydney at school.
It is, therefore, completely and utterly wrong that I still feel crappy.
As I asked Brian this morning, "Is this what being 39 means? Does it mean that a cold can push me down and flatten me out for so many days?" "Apparently," was his response. "Apparently," is right. And everyone's best advice, or sympathy, is to point out that, at 39, I need to be taking better care of myself. Granted ... maybe. But I've been doing okay lately. Except for running myself ragged for the last several months. (I'm convinced that this cold is a direct result of moving to Houston.) Still, I can see where this incredible sickness could be considered a spotlight shining on my immune system, or lack thereof.
Whatever. I'm tired. I want to feel better. I've had a bad day on top of a bad week, and I just want to go to bed. Here come tonight's eight hours.