Today I took a sick day.

I was pretty sure yesterday that I would need to, as I woke up feeling under the weather in San Antonio and still had five hours in the booth plus two flights to get through before I could tumble into bed. I mean, ibuprofen is good — but not that good.

But this morning, I thought, I might be able to go in. Let me call in late and see how I feel when I wake up the second time.

When I woke up mid-morning, I felt a little better. Not 100 percent, but 75 or 80. I got dressed. Brushed my hair. Packed my bag.

And yet I just couldn’t get myself out the door. The mind was willing, but the feet refused to comply.

So I returned to my original plan and called in sick.

And it’s a good thing, too.

Because I’m pretty sure my office manager would have had something to say about the hour-long nap I took mid-afternoon.

But I’m feeling a lot better and have spent the later part of the afternoon listening to podcasts, curling up with cats, and knitting. Nothing taxing, but that’s the whole point of a sick day.

Yes, I’m sorry I missed getting out on such a nice winter day. And, yes, there were things at the office I would have liked to have gotten done. But better to give the body the time it demands to recuperate than to push it along and have it rebel later on.