Whatever-it-was turned out to be fleeting: I appear to have recovered from yesterday's ick and even managed, late in the day, to trudge into the garden and tear out some useless groundhog-damaged Brussel sprouts plants that were flopping all over the place and producing nothing. Today, I'll be getting a haircut, working on teaching plans, cogitating over Frost Place faculty possibilities, carving a poem draft, going to the fish market, lamenting my lackluster Red Sox, wearing a long-sleeved shirt, admiring my new sneakers, copying out the Inferno, wincing at the onslaught of more editing, waiting for a paycheck, hanging out with the cat, staring through windows, folding towels, making the bed, washing dishes, rereading a Louisa May Alcott novel, denouncing the government, chattering to some member of my family, the same old stuff I always do.

I was listening to a This American Life episode about people who began with a Plan A about what to do with their lives but somehow ended up in Plan B--and I am not one of those people. I always wanted to read and write books, and play with animals, and have a little house and a family. And I did, and I still am, and nothing has changed.