Have worked in daycare for almost 30 years and was flattering myself that I'd actually developed some resistance finally. Hubris. Am still convinced that if I hadn't had four early mornings out of five I'd still be well.
However since I feel lousy, I can feel no lousier-- well, not much lousier-- decreasing the pile of To Be Reads. Grimly ploughed through a Jane Austen mystery yesterday. Am grimly ploughing through an Aristotle, Detective mystery today. Am not enjoying it at all except that it passes the time and makes room on the shelves.
And then I went back to my reread of The Fifth Elephant. And suddenly am reminded of why it is one reads books. Pleasure, amusement, and the creative use of language. Is that really so hard?
(Walked to the super this aft. The high today is 18, mid-60s, People had their air conditioners on. I won't say, The fools, because I know *why* they had the AC on. They live in houses with those sliding glass panes at the bottom of the windows that gives you an opening as big as a standard letter-size piece of paper. You can't even use a window fan with those. And they're flipping everywhere. Someone has a real vendetta against the notion of fresh air.)
