The bright blue skies called my name in more of a panicked shout than a whisper. “IT’S NOT RAINING! THE SKY ISN’T DARK! GET OUT IN THE SUNSHINE! QUICK! BEFORE IT GOES AWAY!” We hit the trails close to home, you know, the one’s I like to call my “home trails.” There is a little lake about 10 minutes from my front door that has miles and miles of trail to explore. So off we went. And it was great.

Until the evening.

That’s when the ick set in. The Viking/Spartan/Roman in me dug her heels in deep and refused to acknowledge that this was actually illness, so I loaded up on antihistamines (because allergies, right?) and slept like the dead. In the morning I was gravely disappointed when I realized I’d been hit by a truck in the middle of the night. Fast forward to today, 6 days later, and I still can’t breathe properly or exert any effort without hacking up a lung.

Yesterday, I demanded that I get out and enjoy some fresh air. I’ve been cooped up in the office all week long breathing recycled germs and thought that just maybe spending time in wide open spaces would do me good. I few friends agreed to walk with me and even if I’m still congested at least my heart is happy from the few moments of togetherness we were able to have.

We should make it a regular thing.

The walk. Not the sickness.