SICK DAZE (OR, RATHER, WHEN LIFE IMITATES ART)

There is little deference to be projected upon one's surroundings when submerged in an environment for an extended period of time. Upon returning home from school for the first significant period in months, this deference takes the form of discovery (or, rather, rediscovery--of one's prior surroundings and sceneries). From a personal context, this rediscovery was most directed towards, as mundane as they might seem, bathrooms. Perhaps a result of being constrained to a bathroom shared with three others that was often ridden with mold and a general disregard for cleanliness, the bathrooms of my childhood home suddenly carried a much greater significance in the span of my time off, often serving as the background to selfies and a source of general admiration.

Despite this newfound appreciation, when I found myself home alone all day with a bitter head cold, my indifference to my surroundings was sudden, perhaps proof to the previous testimony, or just an obvious result of being sick (and a sudden case of seasonal affective disorder). 

Fast forward to slurping soup and reading the first few pages of Grace Coddington's new memoir, and this feeling of rediscovery was awakened once again, this time to the tune of sniffles rather than four-year-old arca. Suddenly I found myself pouring clementines into a bathtub flowing with water--blame it on Coddington's signature reddish orange mane (or the fact that everything targeted towards sickness is orange-flavored). Rediscovery had truly never tasted (or smelled) so good.

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