As much as I wanted to be the poster child for zoster or to foster a child with zoster or to have zoster on my roster or peanut butter in my chocolate or chocolate in my peanut butter for at least a month or two, a visit this morning to the doctor (or, really, a physician's assistant) put an end to that dream. It seems the course of treatment, a sexy cocktail of Vicodin and Valtrex, worked its medicinal magic, and I am on the road to a complete recovery of my usual fabulousness, which means you will find me hopping, skipping, and pirouetting (jumping is so déclassé) down, up, and across Broadway (or even under, if I'm in the mood for a nice little bout of asphyxiation on a subway platform), swinging my handbag in tandem with my hair, singing "Georgy Girl" at the top of my pink and perky lungs.

Thank you to all of you who left comments or wrote me super-duper top secret email wishing me well. I know it was really your good vibes and voodoo (two more Vs to add to the treatment collection) that got me to where I am today: Going to the laundromat on a Friday afternoon.