I hate getting sick.

Maybe being in Mexico while I’m sick is marginally better than being sick back at home in the U.S. because it is warm here and I can sit out in the sunshine like a big, grumpy gecko and soak up the sun. I can put on my dark gecko sunglasses and take my scaly old self onto the roof where there are chairs that overlook the city. I can drink fresh-squeezed orange juice and, when I finish it, some kind person will ask me if I want another one.

“Yes! I want another one!” I want to say. “I want as many of these as it takes until I don’t feel like a gecko anymore!”

I don’t say that. I usually stop at one orange juice because that’s the equivalent of about four oranges, which ought to be enough to frighten off any virus. Although with me they seem especially stubborn. And I know why.

My colds are stubborn because I get them through stubbornness.

I almost always get sick after I’m pushing, pushing, pushing myself to finish something and, as soon as it appears I have made it, my body says, “OK! I did that for you. Now it’s my turn!” And I am laid low.

I have done this all my adult life. Every major project, every sustained effort, whether it was finals in school or a season of theater or a particularly demanding presentation or, in this case, getting the first draft of a book shipped to my agent (thank you very much, body), leads me to spend a few days afterward coughing and blowing my nose with a sore throat and a geckolike attitude.

(I’m not even sure why I’m picking on geckos. For all I know, they are cheerful creatures. But they look irritated and unattractive, which is how I feel, so I’m sticking with it.)

I have never solved this conundrum. I am honestly unaware that I am pushing myself past my limits. I monitor how much sleep I get, I exercise moderately, I eat healthy things. I do nothing that should cause alarms to go off and warn me I am transforming into a gecko in mere days.

After the project is completed, I feel a rush of euphoria, and I have at least six brilliant ideas I think I should start immediately. I have this feeling, “Well, if I can do that, I can do ANYTHING!”

Cue the sore throat.

Usually within hours, my glands will swell, and I’ll have trouble swallowing. By the next day, I have to breathe through my mouth, and I’m going through boxes of tissues. You know the drill. There is nothing unique or interesting about my transformation into a gecko.

I never become severely ill. I never get anything requiring medical assistance. I just get the most boring variety of knock-me-on-my-butt illness known, and I have to deal with it for a few days -- days that last exactly as long as they are going to, no matter how much fresh-squeezed orange juice I drink.

And I don’t have a solution. I wish I could end by saying, “Then one day, I discovered what my problem was! All I needed to do was ...”

Because if I figured that out, I would share it with everyone.

Instead, my best advice to gecko self is: Find a warm spot. Sleep as much as possible. Be extra nice to people. And remember there is nothing so special about me that I don’t deserve to be a gecko from time to time.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

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We are heading into the holiday season -- already.

This year it seems like I have been running and racing and making it to places in the nick of time all year. I tend to overschedule -- although I’d like to point out that my sister crams far more activities into less time than I would ever attempt.

Just when I think she couldn’t possibly do another thing, she’ll say, “I’d like to try weaving.” Weaving! That sounds like an activity I would be sentenced to do if I had committed some kind of crime.

I have zero patience for fiber arts, and I feel a little guilty about it. I made a total of one quilt, and it took me nine years. I was not, I’m happy to tell you, working on it for nine years. I bought the fabric, cut out the pieces and assembled some of them. Then I stuck them in a box and then let guilt work on me for eight-and-three-quarter years until I decided I would finally finish the quilt for a Christmas present for my mother. I did.

Someone offered to teach me to knit once, and I bought needles and red yarn. I completed a thumb, and then it was explained to me what I would have to do next. I abandoned the project in terror.

So, no. I don’t have a terribly busy life -- if working on a million projects is what constitutes busy. But I’m usually working hard on something or another, and I’m usually on some kind of deadline. And honestly, I prefer it that way. I’m a person who likes to check off little boxes on a to-do list and estimate when a project will be finished and arrive at the finish line two days early.

“Hurray for me!”

There is no one who knows I had this deadline but me, and no one to join in the celebration except my long-suffering husband, Peter, but it is still a nice feeling.

But now the holidays are coming, and I am trying to remember to make time to do nothing but be grateful. Because I think being grateful actually takes more time than I used to think.

I had this idea that being grateful was a momentary pause: “Gee! This is great!” before rushing onto the next thought, the next activity, the next challenge. I am reexamining this idea.

I think what I was calling gratitude might just have been a quick identification of all the things I have to be grateful for -- not really experiencing what it is to be fully grateful.

I have so much. My life is so full. I know that if I started listing off all the things that are beautiful and wonderful all around me, the sun would be setting, and I’d still be working on my list. But making a list isn’t really experiencing gratitude. Gratitude, I now think, takes a little time.

It means paying attention when I get the chance to talk with my parents. Being fully present when I take my walk on a cold afternoon. Savoring the foods I love. Listening -- just listening -- to the season, without always trying to make sense of it. Just feel. Just listen. Just pay attention.

This is hard for me to do sometimes. I am so programmed to make sense of everything that it is a challenge to sit still long enough to allow the season to seep into me. And be grateful.

It might be easier if I were knitting -- but I’m not going to try it.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

In our household, my husband, Peter, and I have acquired nicknames which we imagine our cat, Felix, calls us by. To Felix, I am Mama and Peter is Mouse.

We came by these names because I spend more time cuddling with Felix -- although he is not much of a cuddler. On the rare occasions when he decides he’d like to make biscuits (or whatever term you use for that endearing activity where a cat treats you like a loaf of bread and kneads you with his two front paws), I am the one he selects. But other than that, Mama has few redeeming qualities because it is Mouse who plays all the games, and Felix loves games.

Peter and Felix have string games and chase games and games in a box. They have surprise-one-another-around-the-corner games and throw-towels-over-Felix’s-head games. They have so many games in so many varieties that I do not try to keep track. Occasionally, I hear something fall to the ground (usually something that used to live on my nightstand) but, other than that, I don’t pay much attention to the many games that Felix and Mouse play.

Mouse is also the one who dispenses the treats. This is because, according to Felix, Mouse knows where the treats are kept and he knows how to open a tuna can. There is no indication that Mama knows either of these things. Mama also does other things, things that Felix really does not like. Mama yells when Felix is on the table (Mouse pretends he does not see him). And -- worst of all -- Mama gets out the nail clippers and cuts Felix’s beautiful curving claws. This is just plain awful and only barely compensated for when he then gets a special treat once the torture is complete. So Mama, it must be said, is rather useless when she is not outright annoying.

But lately, since the weather turned cold in San Miguel, Mama has demonstrated a new, unexpected skill that has come in quite handy. Mama can find the warm spots.

In reality, I have two electric back heaters that I plug in and use to keep warm since the apartment has no heating. I keep one under my desk, under a towel, and the other on my side of the bed, under the sheets. I only turn them on when I plan to use them, and these mysterious warm spots are very appealing to Felix. But he’s never sure where they are and when they will be warm.

This has given Mama a little unexpected clout as she locates the warm spots in the apartment, and Felix follows her around to see if she is hogging one of them so he can move in.

If she is sleeping on one of them, he slowly works his way over until he is under Mama’s armpit. If there is one under her desk, she inconsiderately puts her feet on top of it, so Felix has to stretch himself right over the top of her feet to suck up the available warmth. Then she’ll get up to fetch more coffee and return, only to shove her feet under him again. It is very bothersome.

But once Mama has a fresh cup of coffee and Felix is securely on top of her wool socks, life is pretty good. Mouse goes out for his hike. Mama stays put at her desk making “tappa-tappa-tapping” noises on the computer above, and Felix decides Mama is not entirely bad after all.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION