After spending most of yesterday convincing myself I was ready to go back to work today, I dutifully set my alarm and laid out my work clothes. I should have known when it took me four times longer than usual to get out of the shower that things were maybe not going according to my plan.
By the time I stepped out of my car at the office I knew I had made a mistake. I sat at my desk for about 45 minutes, trying to at least knock off those few tasks that I knew needed doing right away, but even my computer wasn't digging it, and crashed on me, twice.
I can take a hint.
Back home I went, jiggedy jig. On the way home I rearmed myself with fresh supplies of ginger ale and chicken soup, which have been my sole source of caloric input for four days now.
My photographer friend asked me if it wasn't nice to fast for a change, a comment which I am very pointedly choosing not to take offense at. The naturally thin and attractive can be so trying sometimes, but they are nice to have around one.
So I'm back to my routine of bed, bed, tv, and bed, with a little bit of sock-knitting and soup-sipping thrown in. I've already re-watched all my favorite shows (you know who you are), including all five hours of the 1995 Pride and Prejudice with Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth.
Having done so, I can now state without hesitation that Jane Eyre Is Better. It's darker, gloomier, more emotionally fraught, MUCH more toweringly Gothic, and there are far fewer silly little dance scenes.
What it really comes down to is this:
Rochester kicks Darcy's Ass.
And I've got the shirt to prove it.