Unticked boxes

First off, I need to start by apologizing for last week.

Routine is so important for me, and when I fall off the wagon, it feels akin to a death in the family. Dramatic, but true.

Over the last few years, I’ve been trying to find the source of that, asking myself why that is. Because, while routine is good and, for a lot of us, informs the structure and trajectory of our entire lives, a slight change in that routine shouldn’t feel as devastating as it does.

Life is not linear. The wins, the losses, the problems, events, and ebbs and flows don’t adhere to your routine, and the thing is, they never will. So, while we strive to tick every box every day, some of those boxes were designed to inevitably stay blank. And I have to learn to be okay with that.

All that to say, I’ve been sick for over a week now. What started as a common cold, I chose to ignore in those crucial first few days, and of course it turned it into a fully-fledged phlegmy, snot-nosed monster taking residence in my chest and sinus.

Last Friday was the first time I hadn’t been able to go out with the girls this year. We have a running tally of who is the first to break the streak each year. It’s been me three years running, my immune system enjoying its annually scheduled end of summer failure.

When yesterday rolled around, I’d dragged myself to the finish line of the working week, feeling defeated and seriously top heavy, my head and neck swollen and congested. It hadn’t been so much that I refuse to take sick days at work, but this just happened to be one of those weeks that if I’d had days off, it would have bitten me on the ass later.

So, I’d foregone the gym and all after-hours activities instead, and was feeling very sorry for myself, my perfect 2025 record lying around me in ruins.

Even Diana had told me to head out early, a testament to how I must have appeared to the healthy.

Jen had called me at 4 o’clock as I’d made my escape from the office.

“How are you feeling darling?” She had asked.

“Like death warmed up.” I’d said, but it was less about my pounding head and more about how much those unticked boxes sat like an afterimage before my eyes, taunting me.

“Don’t worry about dinner tonight, okay?” Jen said, concern in her voice.

“I wish I could just come out in my pyjamas,” I said, juggling my bag and sandwiching my phone between my ear and shoulder to get my car door open.

“Me, too.” She replied.

Within an hour I’m home, showered, and sitting on the couch in my dressing gown. I can’t be bothered making dinner, and I’ve just about convinced myself I’m not hungry anyway, when there’s a knock at the door.

I groan, then hope it wasn’t loud enough for whoever it was to have heard.

Dragging myself up, I open the door, and there they are.

Eperly and Jen stand in the hallway, in pyjamas, holding bags of takeout.

And I’ve never loved them more.

How lucky I am to have these girls in my corner to remind me that life isn’t supposed to go according to plan, but if you’ve got the right people around you, they’ll change the plan to fit.