Last week I was lamenting a poor week where all I could do was show up, push on and get those things done, which needed doing. I ended it all by posting the last few lines of Rudyard Kipling’s monumental poem, “If.”
Well this week was a whole lot better. I got a great deal accomplished, both at work and on my side projects. Then Saturday arrived and I found myself victim of one of my (thankfully now very infrequent) migraines.
The good news? It wasn’t a particularly bad one.
The bad news? Doesn’t matter if a migraine isn’t particularly bad, it’s still a migraine. Unfortunately, as the day has worn on, it has intensified. I’d like to be out playing with my boys, but the heat and humidity, combined with physical exertion, and a migraine simply don’t mix.
It’s been a very quiet day, hunkered down riding out this fool achy breaky head.
A Billy Ray Cyrus reference? Seriously Andrew, wtf?
Yeah, a Billy Ray Virus reference. In my defense, I’ve never actually heard the entire song. I always managed to get scarce whenever I heard the opening bars. On the bright side, I could almost sing you Weird Al Yankovick’s parody version, “Achy Breaky Song” by heart.
Where was I?
Oh, yeah, taking a slow day to ride out a migraine.
Anyway, no real life’s lesson here. Just a story about muddling through the pain. Instead of a lesson, I’ll leave you with the rest of the poem:
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!