I've been felled by a migraine for the last 24 hours, which is why this post is late (again). Instead of tapping out blog entries, or lounging in the sun, or sampling the touristic pleasures of Coral Gables, I've been prostrate in a darkened room, with a cold washcloth on my head.
Migraines are a terrifically dull and anti-social affliction. My mother used to get them and I have vivid childhood memories of creeping into her room with a pack of her special pink Migraleve tablets, wondering, slightly resentfully, how long Mum's "bad head" would last this time. The medication is a good deal more sophisticated these days than it was back then. If I take one of my Maxalt pills the moment I feel the symptoms coming on, I can cut the thing in half or sometimes nip it in the bud altogether. Even so, I can count on being out of commission for a minimum of ten days a year. The pain of migraines is real enough, but something about the vagueness of their cause and the uncertainty of their duration makes even me, a bona-fide sufferer, vaguely skeptical about them. I feel like a high-maintenance Victorian hysteric; I can't shake the suspicion that if I could only conquer some lurking neurosis, I would be cured.
Anyway, enough gloom, I am well again. And tomorrow, I will be home! Yesterday, when I called my house, my youngest daughter, Lula, refused to get on the phone. This is standard behaviour for 5-year-olds wishing to punish their errant mothers for prolonged absences — and it is enormously effective. I am off now to purchase yet another propiatory chocolate bar to add to the gunny sack of the stuff I have in my luggage.