It was somewhere around the two-thirty hour when I knew a long day was coming.
I woke up, after tossing and turning for the prior three hours, and I felt the beginnings of a headache creeping up the back of my neck.
I did what all 50-plus-year-old men do, of course.
I peed and when back to bed.
From there I tossed and turned until about 5:30 a.m., when I woke up with the headache acting like an octopus and branching its tentacles up each side of my head and down my shoulders and backbone.
The first thing I did—after peeing again, of course—was hop in the shower and let hot water cascade along by neck, head and back for the next 15 minutes or so, trying desperately to loosen up my muscles which felt tighter than a New York City Subway Car at five minutes past five on a Friday afternoon.
After drying myself off, I sat in my chair, feet reclined, trying not to let the morning light affect me.
Approximately an hour later, I decided to make the walk to my deli to get morning cup coffee—knowing full well I’d be skipping breakfast.
That’s when the first wave of nausea started roiling in the pit of my stomach and I felt my temperature rise and fall, felt the sweat glisten and dry as I simply tried not to move.
When the wave finally did roll past, and I knew it wasn’t coming back, I did walk to my deli and back and never has 750 steps, door to door, taken so much out of me.
I crashed in my chair and remained there until two o’clock, at times dozing, at times trying to watch TV.
I heard my phone going off with messages and e-mails and I let them be.
I simply didn’t want to move.
I hate days like that and making it worse is when I see them coming.
I knew as I tried to get back to sleep in the wee hours of the morning that it was going to be a long day, a lost Monday.
I did very little last week, during my first week of “Summer Vacation.”
Today was the day I was going to gear up for what was next.
Instead, it was wasted hour upon wasted hour.
I hated this Monday with a passion.
I can only hope Tuesday is better.