30 Days of Exercise – Day 6

First of all, I’m sure you’ll be delighted to know that I have evicted my squatter. Here he is in temporary housing (he was later released into the community).


Second of all, I have just done a truly crappy 10 minute workout from my app. And I skimped on a couple of the exercises too. There was one where you move from plank to a push up position and back again – couldn’t hold myself up on one arm in the in-between bit, so I just settled for holding the plank. There was a free weight exercise as well, and I couldn’t be bothered to go and find something heavy to hold so I just mimed. I’m so lame…

I’m sick though… boo hoo. Not hugely sick, more like pre-sick, as in I’m exhausted and my temperature’s up and I feel wiped out. Not sick enough to not exercise, but sick enough for  a 30 second jog on the spot to send me reeling a bit.

I’ve been thinking about this whole description of my ailments. Seems like it sounds more or less pathetic depending on where you’re from. As a Brit, I’ve got a temperature. A temperature is something a child gets; it would make them fractious but they’d be deserving of sympathy. A British adult would never even mention having a temperature. It’s something one must soldier on through. In severe cases, one could mention being a little ‘under the weather’, and in such circumstances, one might be offered a glass of water.

If I were American though, I could have a fever. That’s much more dramatic. It even sounds a little dangerous, and carries undertones of insanity and derangement. If television dramas have taught me correctly, the average US citizen is appropriately prepared for the danger and is well aware of how many degrees above the norm indicates the need for medical intervention (my British scale of body temperature measurements ranges from ‘bit chilly’ through ‘feels normal to me’ right up to ‘quite hot’).

Italians have real ownership of this condition though. They don’t just develop fever. They get the fever – la febbre. Italians are forever checking their foreheads for minute changes. Once an Italian colleague turned around to me from her desk and casually asked to borrow my thermometer. Once one has been classified as having la febbre, one is permitted, nay, encouraged to cease all normal activity and retire to one’s bed to await almost certain death. Illness is a serious business in Italy. When I was an au pair, many moons ago, the kids I was taking care of caught a mild sickness bug, which they passed onto me. I locked myself away for an hour or so, until their father knocked on my door. I thought he was going to offer me tea, but he actually wanted to ask if I would like an injection (I politely declined). And need we mention colpo d’aria?

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