Today, which is Family Day in Ontario, President's Day in the U.S. and Monday here in Quebec, I woke up feeling sick. I went into work anyway, figuring I needed the money and would shake it off. Three and a half hours later, I had slowly muddled my way through a fraction of my work and rushed to the bathroom to throw up. Since that was a false alarm, but a co-worker had seen me rush in and out of the stall without flushing, I proceeded to tell her way more than she probably wanted to know about my potential illness.
It was at that moment that I realized I should really care less about what people think of me, or else I might just stroke out one day worrying that the waitress at the take-out didn't see me tip, and then my cause of death would somehow go down as morbid allodaxophobia (fear of opinions, according to The Phobia List.) I would rather die in a more bad-ass manner, preferably by swordfish.
Things accomplished on my sick 1/2-day:
1. Ate too many Cheez-Its
2. Knit 1" on the cabled sweater of doom
3. Finished a book
4. Realized I was better than watching short track speed skating on the TV
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