My throat hurts. At the moment I only notice when I swallow. It’s God’s way of telling me I’m getting a cold. Swell.
Unlike most other ailments, colds moves around. They usually start in my throat before heading to my nose. Twenty plus years ago, when I smoked cigarettes, colds would gradually move to my chest, where they’d then chill out for weeks.
Nothing good can ever come in a situation where the word ‘phlegm’ is used.
I can track this cold’s lineage with a fair amount of certainty. Stef came home from college, sick as a dog. Now, tag I’m it.
At work, I seldom take off for a cold. I’m not sure if that’s right or wrong. Those who play fast and loose with sick days (you know how you are) probably see me as a sucker. I end each year with most of my sick days unused.
Helaine says I’m an awful patient. She says I kvetch at the smallest thing. “It’s the worst cold ever,” she’ll say to me, without an ounce of sincerity. Then she proceeds to baby me.
Earlier today, a friend told me to take Airborne. My doctor says that’s worthless!
The truth is, with all our medical advancements, colds are the same as they’ve always been. There’s nothing I can do except kvetch.
Damn, Helaine’s right again!