It’s Wednesday morning . . . and I’m home. This was not the plan when the alarm went off. It was not the plan as I unsealed the eye glued shut with green gunk. It was not the plan while I got ready for work. Until I looked in the mirror—the kind of looking that involved leaning in close and realizing the extra blur was not the lack of glasses but something more colorful.
Besides the irritating discharge issue, the blood vessels flared red in the so-called whites of my eyes, and the swollen right lid resigned itself to gravity and hung at two-thirds mast.
After scheduling a late morning doctor’s appointment, I fired off a few texts and emails letting work know I may or may not be in today.
Then I waited. And as I did I realized I am unfamiliar with Wednesdays. I have one every week, yes, but not like this. When was the last Wednesday I sat on the couch halfway between the open front door and the open back door and listened to the birds? I mean really listened? Did I even know so many neighborhood birds maintained a steady chorus? There were at least a half dozen tunes being sung at once. It was glorious.
The sun picked off the fog one patch at a time leaving the sky a quilt of muted grays and whites with brief blues appearing.
Back from the doctor’s and one dose of drops in each of my infected eyes, I found myself grateful for a forced pause. It isn’t every week or even month that I am interrupted and reminded how consumed I become by my routine—so nose-in I miss the beauty of the days slipping past me.
It’s Wednesday and I’m home . . . getting to know a day I tend to view more as a task on a list than an opportunity to watch the world with wonder. Thank you, pink eye, this is so much better than what I had planned.