If not the concierge, the travel agency will make sure that you get the spa treatments you want, at the time you want them. (One caveat: my masseur in NYC is much better than almost any hotel masseuse/uer than I have ever found, with the exception of one I got serendipitously from of the phone book in Port Townshead, Washington.)
I am slowing working my way back into a daily routine at home: awaken between 10:30 am and 12: 30 pm. Take morning pills. Feed breakfast pellets to the Off-White Rabbit. Add hay to Off-White Rabbit's pan after picking out his poop. I used to say, I am a very good friend, but I don't pooper-scoop or change diapers. Times change -- albeit a diaper, a baby, a changing table, and my services are not a scene I foresee. Almost all of my friends have had their children, and I have had little upper body strength plus orthopedic hand problems for too many years to count.
Heat water for tea while checking e-mail. After tea, consult daily list of things-to-do. Decide what I can manage for today, and what can wait until tomorrow. Attempt to find some nutritional sustenance. This is optional for me, mandatory for the off-white Rabbit. He eats three balanced meals a day, more than I can say for myself. Then again, his are catered to his cage, and mine require a bit more effort.
Answer the phone, unless both lines are ringing frequently enough that I am bouncing between the two. Having two land lines and one cell phone does not mean I am always in a mood to talk.
Watch an hour of Judging Amy or ER, time and content dependent. Then, turn on CNBC for the business news I need to give me background for my three-hour workday. Since I work at home, three hours here, alone, more than equals eight hours a day in an office. I have time-tested this comparison. Plus, I think the 40-hour work week is overrated and unnecessary.
Sometimes, afternoons are good for calling clients and colleagues: three hours to my colleague and friend Heather today. If the weather is good, I run errands in the neighborhood. I consider getting out of my apartment a major achievement some days.
Five o'clock or so is naptime: an hour and a half blissfully resting, even after my regular 9 to 10 hours a night of sleep. This is mandatory if I have had to take too many migraine pills. Otherwise, it's a nice respite.
Somewhere in the day, I wash my hair (weather dependent.) If I'm going out and it's below 50 degrees, I'll wait until I'm in for the day. Otherwise, I can let it dry on its own. As a fan of wash-and-wear hair, I am not well acquainted with the blowdryer or styling techniques. I leave that to the professionals.
Wake up too early, and I am curiously jet lagged, unable to contemplate what to do with the extra morning hours. Wake up too late, and I have an impetus to get something accomplished. Any part of my routine is subject to derail, depending on my state of mind. Sometimes the meds achieve their goal, but sometimes not.
I have learned not to wonder why I feel depressed: I asked that question for close to 20 years, and never received an answer that made sense. I would rather, at this point, just take more meds and wait for the mood to pass. I feel the same way about migraine: it is truly a waste of time to try to discern why, after 25 plus years. Just make me feel better is my motto.
I am not going to wax poetic on either topic, because only so much time can be devoted to analysis before discovering that the why is not worth the effort. These synaptic lapses are hard-wired in my brain. I have great empathy with mommies who suffer from post-partum depression, but on the other hand, welcome to my world. Don't post-partum feelings give a mom a sense of the battle I have fought since I was a child, when I don't have a finite end in sight? Not until one of my friends had post-partum could she see the world through my eyes.
The exercise-is-a-cure all line of reasoning is one trial and error or omission has proven incorrect. I spent too many years crying into my swimming goggles to accept that.
What else, in my daily routine. A brief bout of nostalgia, for what never was or what could have been, especially with TCP or CC. Prayers for my dying friends. Dinner. Always dinner. Regardless of any previous food consumption, I make sure dinner is balanced, or some semblance thereof.
The other night, I dreamt I gave TCP back his mallet. It seemed significant, but in the most blatant of ways: I'm not trying to change him, or us (when there was an "us"), but have acknowledged he has his playing field and I have my own, and they are no longer adjacent.
Then, perhaps some reading or writing or blogging or telephoning, and later, my evening meds, followed by Bunny's nighttime snack. This is when the off-white rabbit likes to shake free of his cage, hop around the living room, plant himself at my feet to cuddle. He is a nine-year-old, unneutered male. He will hump anything he can -- my socks or nightgown, or the stuffed animals I provide for him.
Eventually I retire to bed with a book or the TV on. Next day? Same shit, different day.