I emerged from my haze of fog today, my illness that pinned me to the couch for the past seven days, to return to the world of normalcy, maybe do a little work, maybe have some conversations with people that are not J or the dogs, or talking to the characters on 90210.

I’ve been feeling better, sort of, save some major congestion in my right ear, which means I can’t really hear anything except this high-pitched ringing sound it’s causing, and when I went to the doctor this morning she looked in there with her little ear-inspecting instrument, and she laughed, and said “Woah! You’ve got so much fluid in there!” and I laughed too, because apparently I had so much fluid in there it was kind of funny, and then I asked her what I could do about it and her expression turned more solemn and she said “you just have to wait it out.”

So I’m opting to, you know, get off the couch while I wait it out, and returned to the newspaper office today and stopped over at Panera Bread to get some lunch and I was waiting for my soup and salad, standing there, cringing at everyone, trying to make them understand that I was there but I wasn’t exactly all there if you know what I mean because I can’t hear out of my right ear for Christssakes, except I CAN hear my my own voice, and other noises I might make, like swallowing, very loudly, like I’m in some cavern, and how is a person supposed to live like that? And I noticed this guy who works there, who is always very friendly, just chatting it up with all the customers and I squinted my eyes a little and realized he looks kind of like my gynecologist and then because I really wasn’t feeling up to snuff, I think, I started to wonder if maybe he WAS my gynecologist and that I’d just never recognized him because in the doctor’s office he’s always wearing a lab coat or whatever, and today he was wearing Panera clothes.

I couldn’t believe it and thought about how it probably wasn’t good that my gynecologist was moonlighting at Panera Bread because, first of all, how come he wasn’t making enough money at his practice? What kind of place was I entrusting my reproductive organs to if the doctors have to get additional part-time jobs at local eateries? Also, if you’re a reputable doctor, wouldn’t you find that kind of job - the kind of job where you’re handing out samples of freshly baked cinnamon buns out to strangers, which is exactly what this guy was doing - beneath you? Not that a job at Panera is beneath anyone, believe me, I love those guys who make me my You-Pick-Two combo meal with soup, salad and an apple as a side, it’s just that, you know, I figure it might be beneath a doctor. A good doctor anyway.

After standing there frowning at the guy for the brief period before they called out my name to let me know my to go order was ready (see? another reason I love it there, your food is ready in a flash) and then really, really thinking about it, I realized that the Panera employee was undoubtedly not my gynecologist, they just looked a little bit alike. Which, honestly, is also kind of weird.

Anyway, what I learned today is that it might be another good week before I’m feeling back to my normal, healthy, non-delusional self. And that’s ok. I’ve become incredibly awesome at “resting” (watching as many episodes of “The Girls Next Door” as is humanly possible and all our movies on DVD, over and over again).

When I got home from my trip Monday afternoon I very quickly succumbed to some sort of sickness I must have picked up on one of the many planes or trains or subways I’ve been on in the past few weeks - the kind of sickness I feel I’d never otherwise get except for the travel, spending a lot of time in small spaces with the multitudes, observing humanity, including sharing their germs, compounded by my body being not quite up to fighting strength due to a rather hectic schedule.

This is the kind of sickness I feel people only get in sitcoms, a kind of vague mishmash of symptoms, including fever, sore throat, coughing, headache, chills, nausea and aches - the kind of thing you see some actor playing out on screen and say, “It’s never really like that when you get sick.” Except for having the flu, which I’ve been lucky enough to avoid since childhood, my sick spells are usually more pointed, more specific. A head cold. Food poisoning. A sinus infection. Not everything all at once.

Because I realize that this is a clear signal my body is sending me to just sit still for a few days (and because I can’t really do otherwise without falling over) I’ve done a completely decent job of staying home sick the past couple of days. Watching movies in bed, sleeping a lot, drinking lots of fluids, barely moving. Trying to let myself heal. Trying to stay upbeat, which is rather difficult.

Around 4 am this morning, for instance, I woke up with a piercing pain in my right ear, the demons clogging my system having decided to take up residence there for a while, I suppose, resulting in an earache that lasted for several hours. An earache, for Christ’s sake! I never even suffered earaches as a youngster, as so many children do, but I now understand why they cry like that, those poor kids - the pain - and the next time I see a child plagued by ear infections I’m going to go right out and by him or her a pony.

Because I am sick, and therefore a total pain in the ass, I sort of passively woke up J - who has been an absolute angel - by kicking my legs about in bed and moaning quietly and proclaiming that my fever was back and not only that but I had an earache and also I was dying. He turned over and told me that everything was going to be alright, that I had to “fight this with a positive attitude,” before he drifted back to sleep.

I lay there in bed a few moments, contemplating throwing another tantrum, this time with wildly flailing limbs and proclamations about how “this just isn’t fair!” but I realized that, actually, it is fair. I’ve had an amazing time of it lately, seeing friends and and family and traveling, and if the payment is nothing more than sitting around the house watching movies and daytime television for a few days while being alternately very hot then very cold and sometimes not being able to hear out of my right ear, well, I can handle that. And I can even try, as J suggested, to handle it with a somewhat positive attitude, or at least stop the moaning. Ok, at least stop the moaning in the middle of the night. There’s no need to stifle my complaints, to try and be all that positive in the middle of the day, really, when there’s no one around to hear me.

I went up to New York City this weekend, and stopped over at my parent’s house in D.C. Thursday night, and because my mother was out of town on business, my father and I decided to go get dinner at this cute, happening pizza place in Georgetown.

We were standing at the very crowded bar, drinking a glass of red wine together and started talking about how we both tend to be a little neurotic when it comes to our health, you know, thinking we’re dying, when in reality, we’ve got a muscle ache or something.

My dad decided to tell me a story about this one time he’d gone to have his yearly physical, and the doctor had detected a tiny bit of blood in his urine, but opting to be “delicate” in his recounting, he leaned in and told me, “there was blood, you know, in my wee-wee?” the only problem regarding this delicate recounting being that we’d gotten really into the conversation, into laughing at ourselves and he told me about his “wee-wee” in a sort of gruff, fake-whispered-but-actually-incredibly-loud voice, which, needless to say, attracted the attention of some of the bar customers, many of whom looked like they might be out on a first date. But what really reeled them in, stopped all their conversations was when my father told me, naturally, he’d assumed be was dying of some rare disease, and I asked him what had actually been wrong, and he, having lost all sense of decorum and realization of the fact that we were in a public - a really public - place, told me that, of course, it turned out he was fine, that the doctor - and this he shouted - leaning back, making fun of himself, glass of wine in one hand and a piece of bruschetta in the other, “It was MY PROSTATE. JUST A LITTLE ENLARGED! ‘NO BIG DEAL’ THE DOCTOR SAID. MY PROSTATE!”

My great friend Karla, who is currently an exercise physiology grad student at UNC, has started a blog called Stay Moving, and it really inspires you to do just that. Move. Get some fresh air. Lay off the macaroni and cheese.

I don’t know anybody who, during these dreary winter months, couldn’t use some encouragement in the whole physical fitness realm. I certainly do. So check out her blog if you know what’s good for you. You won’t regret it. And who knows, you may be up for running a marathon in a few months. Or at the very least up for running down the street a few blocks or so.

When I was in college my friend Slavomir Zapata and I took yoga together - both beginner and intermediate yoga - but to tell the truth all that came of these classes were some really good talks, funny stories and perhaps we each became a little bit more flexible.

Slavomir was from Maine so, needless to say, we became fast friends because I am obsessed with that place. He’d talk about L.L. Bean all the time, and I’d listen attentively, because as I’d been taught by my father since I was just a little girl, L.L. Bean is the best place in the world.

Slav and I had a lot of fun adventures together, like joining the BU Chorale Society, and there was also this night we were kind of, maybe, inebriated, walking home from our favorite Thursday night bar, Beckett’s, and we took all these potted plants that were on campus out of their pots and threw them on people’s porches, but, for the present, I’m not gonna get in to recounting college tales that have anything to do with liquor and the results of liquor.

The point is we usually did things for fun, so although I don’t remember the exact moment he and I decided to sign up for yoga classes, I’m pretty sure we weren’t all, “You know what would be GREAT? Getting in touch with our bodies.” I’m thinking it went more like, “You know what would be fucking hysterical? Taking yoga.”

The classes were held in the community room of a really nice residence hall up on West Campus. Since Slav and I lived, in fact, not even on BU’s campus, but in some temporary housing they’d leased at another, small, Catholic girl’s college, southeast of the University, we usually had a nice long walk ahead of us, and this is when we’d talk about anything and everything on our minds, and despite the hilarity that ensued upon yoga class commencing, I always remembered these walks - and talks - as a very nice time in my college career.

Classes were taught by a very ridiculous woman with dark, curly hair, who’d wear, like, a leotard and a tablecloth tied around her waist. Now that I’ve experienced more of the world, I realize that this woman, our teacher, wasn’t totally ridiculous, but was just kind of new-age and really, really into being in tune with the Earth. Lots of yoga people are, I’ve found, and now that I am older, and able to keep myself composed in humorous situations (sometimes) I like being around people like this. They make me feel relaxed. And this is exactly what you want in a yoga class.

And to be fair, relaxation is (sort of) what we got. After class I’d feel remarkably reenergized and calm, all at the same time and I knew that the hour of moving around slowly on the floor, getting into positions named after various animals and trying to do headstands and whatnot had, indeed, been good for me. Of course, things didn’t always go as planned. On one occasion I was reaching deep into my backpack to get out the soft, unrestrictive clothes I’d packed for class, and upon finally yanking them out of the bag, also unlodged a wrapped tampon I was carrying in the backpack and, unfortunately, didn’t have the sense to place in a zippered pocket. It went flying across the room and landed squarely in front of the entire class, on the floor.

At other times, things got too relaxed. At the end of every class, our good-natured teacher would guide us through what she called “deep relaxation.” We lie on the floor, eyes closed, while she had us tense, and then release every muscle in our body. When we finished, she’d sing us a little song, the “mani mantra,” and we were expected to lie there, still, not even laughing or anything, while all our worries dissolved.

After Slav and I learned to get a grip during this part of class, we were able to participate without losing it. In fact, Slav got so into it that he’d often fall asleep. This was fine, and I doubt he was the only one who succumbed to this fate. After all, we were college students, and certainly not getting enough rest. The thing was however, that Slav wouldn’t always wake up at the end of class, so I’d have to quietly nudge him, trying not to make a spectacle. Even worse, he’d snore - and loud - DURING the mani mantra. When this happened I’d reach over from my mat to his and tap him lightly on the arm. This never worked so I’d tap a little harder, causing him to bolt upright and sometimes ask what was going on. This wasn’t exactly what one was supposed to do during deep relaxation, but proved to be good fodder for later that night when we were regaling our friends with stories from that day’s class. We’d show them the new positions we learned too, such as the “Flying Eagle,” and “Swaying Tree.”

You would think a person who treated such an ancient, well-loved physical art form with such disrespect wouldn’t really be interested in taking it up again, but that’s not the case. My gym membership recently ended, coinciding with a slight hip injury due to running, and the yoga studio right near our house started looking more and more attractive. I liked the idea of doing something nice for my body, especially since I’d gotten hurt running, and needed to take a little break. Plus, I have fond memories of that very-relaxed feeling after my college yoga classes, even if other memories supercede those. I wanted that feeling again.

So a couple weeks ago I decided to stop in the main office just to say hi and see what they offered. Just to get some information, I thought, not to do anything impulsive, but about ten minutes later I’d bought a 6-class pass. The problem is I’m immediately drawn to anything anyone says is good for me. I’m a vendor’s dream. And the vendor, of sorts, in the yoga office was a nice, older gentleman with graying hair, a soft voice and bare feet. Not only did he show me a lineup of all the classes available, he circled the ones I might be interested in and even talked to me about my injury and gave me some tips. How could I say no? That’s right, I couldn’t, so I handed over my money.

I attended my first class this past weekend. I chose a beginner’s class, and wasn’t sure what to expect since my last yoga experience had been so many years ago, but luckily, I found that these people were pretty much doing the same things we college kids had done. We put our mats down on the floor and laid down. The instructor turned on some soothing music and told us to take breaths and let go of “anything that wasn’t serving” us anymore. “Just let it go,” she said. The only thing I could think of that wasn’t serving me was all the leftover Halloween candy I keep gorging on every day, so I concentrated, and tried to let it go.

I immediately found that this yoga class differed from my previous experience in that these people - grown ups, and even worse, grown ups in the Chapel Hill/Carrboro area which can sometimes border on hippiedom - were not, like I’d been in college, afraid of what anyone thought of them. So when we were told to “breathe,” these people, they really breathed. Loud. And sometimes it sounded like they were having orgasms. And then I started to wonder if maybe they were having orgasms.

The actual class structure was similar to what I’d done before. There were similar positions - surprisingly, very hard for me, since I guess I haven’t tried balancing myself on my left hand and right leg in a full lunge person as of late - and there were similar exercises, like imagining we were surrounded, inside and out, by a bright, golden light.

At the end of class we did something like “deep relaxation,” where everyone laid on their backs (some people covered themselves with little blankets, and others put silken beanbags, handed out by the teacher, over their eyes) and we “came back into” our bodies. I’m not really sure what that meant, because when I was trying to do a shoulder stand - trying really, really hard to do a good one because I was one of the youngest in class and I couldn’t let these other people beat me - I’m pretty sure I was very “in my body,” and that there was some pain associated with being there.

When class was over I noticed that some of the students were hanging out and hugging each other and catching up and I could just tell they were totally into this lifestyle on a level I will never acheive. It’s not that I can’t get into yoga, because I can, and plan on keeping it up weekly. I mean, it feels really good and I do believe that something about it - maybe the yoga teachers and their softly-uttered instructions, or the music, or just taking a few hours to stretch out and relax, which you’d never take the time to do at home - is beneficial. And for that reason, I think I’ll like having it in my life.

But the thing is, I might still tell funny stories about the experience later on, which I’m thinking might exclude me from being close with these people, and besides, I don’t want to give anybody a false impression of how in tune with the Earth I am or anything, and if I’m out doing something, like, say, uprooting potted plants and engaging in general recklessness, I don’t want any new yoga friends to see me and think, “Jesus. And we thought she was so very, deeply relaxed.”

I spoke too soon, it turns out, when in comments a few posts back I reported that I had successfully stopped getting urinary tract infections and thus regularly turning into a mad and uncontrollable beast who lies on the couch complaining and demanding drugs while at the same time bemoaning the fact that I have to take them. Because, you see, early this week I felt the familiar pain rise up again out of a dark and forgotten place. I thought I’d never feel it again, but that’s ridiculous, is the thing.

I’m just…prone…and I got another urinary tract infection and went to my regular doctor, who confirmed my fears and gave me the proper medicine to get rid of the problem, and assured me that if I was going to get them, I might as well get them one or two times a year and not every other second, and since I hadn’t had one since five or six months prior, well, at least I was on the right track, right? I agreed. If I can’t knock them completely, at least a brief respite between each would be nice, and if I can reduce the number through my brilliant hydration-and-cranberry-pills-plan, then good for me.

So instead of going on an extended self-loathing binge, the kind where I sit J down on the couch and, over the course of 40 minutes, involve him in a philosophical debate regarding my condition, I only involved him in a minor one. He, being a scientist, explained, for the 578th time, “Cara, this is an infection. You go to the doctor, you get rid of it. End of story.” And then I usually say, “Yeah, but the infection and course of antibiotics affects me deep in my soul, in the very emotional part of my being that says I’m a good person. That I am of sound body.” After a while I come around and do what the doctor says and I’m better. You guys know. Because I’ve told you about it before. Many times.

This time, of course, having so successfully avoided this pain for so many months, and because I am pretty much crazy, really really crazy, on my last day of the meds, feeling ever so slightly that maybe the mega dose did not completely wipe out my symptoms completely, and thinking that I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to get rid of this thing entirely, I decided that I needed to go back to the doctor and make sure, absolute sure, it was gone. And that’s what I did today. Lucky for him, it was a new doctor, a very nice one, one I hadn’t seen before in my casing the joint on a regular basis, and therefore he didn’t skip right to the problem, like my normal guy does, knowing how to appease me and get me out of there in a semi-reasonable amount of time, but proceeded to ask me questions, the normal questions you’d ask a normal person who was actually sick, like what my symptoms felt like, and when I’d taken my last dose of Cipro and, the kicker, if I thought the problem could be related to anything else, like, say, my being a total nutcase. Which he didn’t ask, obviously, and so I had to explain to him as he sat, bewildered, in the chair. “You see, when I get any pain that could be referred to as ‘anywhere near’ the region we’re talking about here, I become, like, neurotic urinary-tract girl, and everything takes on significantly more weight than it normally does, so my still feeling symptomatic? That could be due to, like, my having had about ten thousand gallons of water over the past couple of days. Surely that would make a person feel like they have to pee all the time, which is how I’m feeling. So I think I just need to know if the infection is gone (and it turned out it was), because, to be totally honest, I feel completely fine right now.”

“That happens a lot,” said the good-natured doctor. “People make an appointment and then come to the doctor, and they feel better, and it turns out nothing is wrong.”

“Yeah,” I replied, sheepish. “Yeah, I would imagine that, ah, that happens to people a lot.”