This weekend Terri and I both suffered from the same stomach flu that hit Lydia's babysitter and kept Little Miss home last week. It was dry-heavingly awful.
As a result of said hell-spawned infection: (i) we had to bail on dinner plans; (ii) I wasn't able to to leave the house to purchase the office pool lottery tickets, and thus, missed out on our chance to win $41M (which we were way due for); and (iii) I lost eight pounds in one day, which can't be surprising after a 24-hour diet composed entirely of several grapes, a bowl of soup, and a few pieces of watermelon that I couldn't keep down.
Recall also that Saturday was the hottest such March Saturday in recorded Nova Scotia history - and I spent it bundled up in bed, wearing a sweater, under flannel sheets, with the pellet stove roaring... and shivering. That is until I woke up in a disgusting pool of disgusting sweat. In my dreams, I think I may have been riding some strange ring into Mordor, or forging swords for some giant battle over some fictional world, or something equally embarrassing, because there is nothing that happened this past weekend that I am proud of. And yet I feel compelled to share these details. Feel my pain, internet.
On the plus side, my abs feel good and tight today, like I imagine Michael Phelps' to be... *flex*
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