The delightful sensation that has made me feel like my chest is on fire, and has caused alternating internal infernos and icebergs now has a name. I have been diagnosed and medicated, but I still feel like a bus hit me, then backed over me a few times. Worse still, my girl is suffering the same malaise. Nevertheless, life must march on. I'll drag my sorry heiney into school tomorrow, even if I did get winded walking to the bathroom today. I'm sure the sixth graders will have pity on me. Tomorrow night's Oliver may or may not happen. Without me, the show still goes on (and on, and on). Saturday's vocal competition is unlikely. My reduced breathing capacity makes those delightful lines in the Donaudy aria seem insurmountable. I've had it with the kvetching and self pity. I want to work, sing, and run, but this infected bag of bones has other priorities.
