Let me get it out of the way right now: Happy Valentine's Day.

I'm not going to go into my annual discussion of February 14, mainly because it doesn't feel as if it's the actual holiday. I'm not with it enough to comment on it, I'm not energetic enough to be sarcastic about it, and I lack the stomach at the moment to consume chocolates, were I to receive any today.

I'm just sick. Recovering, but still sick. So it's not Valentine's Day, it's not Tuesday, it's not whatever. It's just T-minus approximately seven hours until I can climb back into bed and go to sleep.

See, here's how it worked out: For the past couple of weeks, I've been telling my body to push through and keep on moving. My body replied that perhaps I should think about taking it a little easier. I snarkily laughed, told my body to shut up and kept on moving. My body said it wasn't feeling so great. I called it names and kept going.

So late Saturday night, my body decided that it didn't need to deal with my shit anymore. It was taking a vacation.

Which is why I ended up in bed for two days.

I'm actually moving about today, and I was thrilled to discover that I was able to eat a whole bagel and a half of a hot apple cider this afternoon. But other than that, I'm feeling pretty vapid.

I feel pale, actually. If one can feel pale.

The good news is that I expect to tell you all about the Penguin Plunge tomorrow. Odds are good I'll also have photographs to share. I assure you that the venture was absolutely fantastic.

In the meantime, forgive me if I resume my process of counting down the minutes to a much-anticipated reunion with my bed.

But have a very happy Valentine's Day.