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I’m still on doctor’s orders for voice rest. Which means I shouldn’t be talking. Frustrating, but doable, right? Well, sort of. What I didn’t realize is that I don’t just talk to people. I talk to the dogs. I talk to the birds outside the windows. I apologize for bumping into inanimate objects. For the love of the Gods, I talk to myself when I write. Apparently, I just talk out loud at odd moments when I’m alone. I might never have realized how much I do it if I hadn’t had this medically imposed limitation. Now I am going to take my sore throat, hoarse little voiced self and go to bed. I’m still not completely well, and since I was pretty much well on Friday, and feeling much better, I can only think that I picked up yet another, different, bug on the airplane coming home. My immune system was already worn down, so I was sort of a sitting duck for it, but the throat is from the original illness, and still lingers. The tiredness and cold symptoms are new. Perfect.

So in the interest of getting completely well of everything I’ve managed to catch, I’m going to bed now. I had more voice today, and over used it on the phone, and now it’s leaving again, which means when I see my doctor tomorrow she may prescribe something new, or yell at me for talking too much. At this point, I’m not sure I care which she chooses to do. I’m feeling quite sorry for myself at this point, and know it’s childish, but there it is, the whole not talking thing is really beginning to wear me down.