“April is the cruellest month” wrote T.S. Eliot in The Waste Land, his epic meditation on death, loss and war.

The old bugger wasn’t wrong, as I discovered this month, hit with a hellish cold that knocked me, DivaB and the boychild sideways.

In fact, I am still speaking with a distinct mid-Atlantic nasal twang, courtesy of a endless post-nasal drip. I’m Madonna in reverse. She, a nice mid-Western gal, moved to the UK and promptly began to sound like a cockney member of the royal family. I, a nice British gel, caught a cold in Boston, and now sound like I’m channeling Robin Leach in Nantucket Reds.

Little B’s ear infection was terrible for all. Getting her to take her antibiotics has felt like we’re waterboarding the little tyke. Hubby or I, her fellow torturers, would hold her flailing arms,  while the other forced her mouth open to shoot the noxious, bubble-gum flavored liquid down her throat with a syringe, ignoring her cries for mercy. Christopher Hitchens, were he alive today, would have a field day.

I’m tired. Very tired. Which in part, explains the terrible title of this post.

My only respite this week was a yoga class I happened upon. Dubbed “restorative yoga” on the class schedule, I think “geriatric stretching” would be more accurate, based on the median age and lack of limberness of my fellow downward doggers. And the fact that the yoga teacher was wearing pleated pants and looked like Paul McCartney.

I’m not complaining. When I lived in New York and went to Jivamukti Yoga, surrounded by toned, tattooed 20-year-olds who looked like Megan Fox or Zac Efron, I used to feel like a flabby yoga fake.

During this recent geriatric stretching extravaganza, however, glancing over smugly at my classmates’  relative creakiness,  I suddenly morphed, in my mind, into Cindy Crawford. Which is, of course, terribly un-yogic and mean, and I’m sure the Sanskrit-wielding gods and goddesses would not be pleased.

Then again, if April is indeed the cruellest month, I might as well embrace my inner Cruella — possibly my all-time favorite character from a Disney movie — and let it rip.

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