I left work this morning after two hours of slogging through email, convinced I had malaria. I returned from Nic with more than 100 bites on my lower extremities and some doubt whether they are actually mosquito bites or something more exotic and frightening. (I also got my first tick bite on this adventure. Did I mention that? Mother sucker. I couldn’t figure out what that pebble-sized purple thing on my hip was that wouldn’t flick off, until I pulled it off and it moved. AH!)
Regardless, I’m now feeling better after a good six hour mid-day nap. I’m either exceptionally fatigued from travel, suffering from a mild case of back-to-work-itis, or having a bad reaction to the Benadryl I’ve been worshipping in a lame attempt to keep myself from scratching with sweet abandon. (Remember that episode of Friends when Phoebe and Charlie Sheen both have chicken pox and spend the night scratching each other with oven mits taped to their hands? Um, yeah.)
So how does one recooperate, other than taking obnoxiously long naps and rubbing it into your friends from home? You go to the Madonna concert, that’s how.
WOOT! Can’t chat. On my way to catch up with my new best friend forever Esther/Madge/Golden Goddess of Pop Music — Madonna! I love being young and having men who want to impress me with fancy dates. Ooh, he just got here. Got to run!
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