Nesting

It’s easy to tell when I’m recovering from an illness … I have an urge to clean house.

My version of a nesting instinct isn’t to have a gaggle of kids or make jars of jam. It’s simpler than that. Boxes that seem out-of-place get moved. The daybed in the office gets cleaned off. Light bulbs get replaced. I make lists of chores.

Maybe it’s the side-effect of observing my home from the couch as I heal, eventually annoyed by random objects between me and the glowing Netflix rectangle. Perhaps it’s an effort to do simile things to get back into the habit of moving around, since simple labor is easier than complex work when I’m don’t have enough energy to focus on more mentally challenging tasks. Either way, I know I’m returning to normal when home begins to look like an incomplete Tetris level.

Now if I start scrubbing the bathroom floors … that’s when I need to find an entirely different sort of doctor. Maybe it’s cheaper to stay on my couch for a while.

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