Sick Day

Last night I could feel, like a brewing storm, the first signs of what would become a debilitating headache. Like the leaves being blown by forceful gusts of wind to reveal their silver undersides. Like thunder rumbling or a gurgling stomach, warning of what's to come. I took some medicine before bed, but you can't make a storm go away. You just have to endure. I woke up, not wanting to move my head. Took more ibuprofen. No improvement. Took some strong, black coffee. Still no improvement. Took a sick day. Ah! Now I'm starting to feel better. Finished a good, funny book. Sad that it is over. I believe it is the author's first novel. She is British. Her writing style reminds me of Nick Hornby's, who is also British, and who wrote High Fidelity, About a Boy, Fever Pitch (all made into movies), A Long Way Down, and How to Be Good. I'd heard long ago about how it is expected in European culture that husbands and wives will stray and have affairs; that it is common and accepted. I wondered how that could be true; how that would not irretrievably ruin the balance of trust and faith in the relationship; how feelings would not be crushed and self-confidence for the cheated-on spouse would not have eroded; how the children (if any) would not suffer. The Nick Hornby books I've read and the book I just finished (by Debby Holt) touch on fidelity, affairs, and how life goes on. But the story is not so significant as the tone of the book; it's all a backdrop for comedy, comedy that is funny because it is about events that the reader can easily relate to (do not misinterpret that as a statement that someone has ever been unfaithful to me; no, it's not true!). The story is really about how the artist/housewife recovers from her husband leaving her for a young, beautiful woman. The book kept me laughing and kept me interested. The stories in the Hornby books and the book I just finished reaffirm to me that, even if affairs and infidelity are common, it would be impossible for people not to suffer the natural consequences, in Europe or elsewhere. But it's more about getting into the main character's head and feeling what she feels, laughing at what she's laughing about, and appreciating life with her as she gradually gains her confidence and independence after 20 years of marriage. I think I can get much more involved in a book when it's told only from the main character's perspective, rather than forcing me to jump around every chapter or so into someone else's head, as in William Faulkner's As I Lay Dying or Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera. Both were somewhat exhausting to read and not really funny at all. Life is funny. Why shouldn't books about life be funny too?