Years ago I watched a sitcom episode where one of the main characters won a weekend trip to Paris. Unfortunately, she came down with the flu during the flight and spent the entire weekend in bed. That pretty much describes my recent vacation a few weeks ago.
My husband and I planned a week away at a favorite state park. The park is known for its eagle migration in January, and my hubby, who is an amateur wildlife photographer, wanted to get some new eagle photos. I'm fond of photography as well, though not so fond of standing outside for hours in bitter cold. I had planned to read, do some writing, and take a few pictures in the warmer afternoon weather. The husband came down with a bad cold a couple of weeks before our trip, and I thought I was free and clear. But a few days before we left, I started to come down with the sniffles, which turned into bronchitis before we came home. Most of my time was spent in the room, trying to summon enough energy to go out for dinner.
The funny thing is, it wasn't that bad of a vacation. If I had been sick at home, I would have spent a majority of my time fussing about everything I wasn't getting done (and making myself sicker by trying to do it anyway). But away from home, with no housework or chores to do, I was forced to rest. And since my vacation plans included laying around and taking it easy, those plans were not spoiled, other than the physical discomfort of sneezing, coughing and a very congested head. I got the rest I needed, we had a fire in the fireplace a few nights, and my Kindle kept me company while my husband was out photographing.
Missing Paris would have been a real downer. But laying around in a cabin for a week wasn't such a bad vacation after all.