Some days are like this.

I suppose one knows that something might be wrong if one gets up at 10:30 a.m. but then sleeps for four of the next twelve hours. Some sort of fatigue settled over the day from its very beginning, and I didn't much see the point of not succumbing. In the middle of the afternoon, I dreamed something I've now forgotten; when I awoke, I found myself overheated to the point of having kicked off many of my covers. When I got up a few minutes later, I felt woozier than colds usually make me feel--and yet my temperature was still below normal (which, for me, seems to be normal), and so I decided just to get back into bed and stay there until I could no longer. After a celebratory dinner with my excellent friends and my flaming-sworded friend and her husband and one of our poet friends, I made myself horizontal once again, this time on the couch, with all the pillows and a warm blanket.

Feeling this way has made for an excellent reading day. I'm careening through Atwood's Alias Grace, which I can put down when I need to sleep some more and then pick right back up when I float back into wakefulness.

Somehow, despite having slept half the day away, I anticipate no trouble getting to sleep or staying there. And if I get up tomorrow morning having slept twelve hours out of the past eighteen, perhaps the malaise will have moved on. One could say I'm in a kind of stop, drop, and roll maneuver--just without the rolling.