My husband Tom gave me his cold. He didn’t mean to, of course, but germs do not discriminate. At first I downplayed it, a skill that I have honed to a sharp edge over the course of my life.
“I’m so sorry!” he said, making a sad face.
“Oh, it’s okay. This isn’t the worst cold that I’ve had. No big deal, honey.”
Then it revved up last night, seemingly within an hours time. My nose was plugged, my eyes started to water. I made myself a cup of chai tea, thinking that it would be soothing, but not having my nose functioning made it nearly impossible to swallow. The mug of hopeful deliverance from my current misery started to become cold and undrinkable.
Well shit on a saltine cracker, I thought to myself.
But I know that this cold will go away eventually, that it’s just temporary. Even if it turns into something funky, antibiotics will kill that off.
So bring it on, mucus. If I can deal with the pain of fibromyalgia and the uncertainty of depression, I can handle your sorry ass.
By the way, I’d like to thank you guys for yet again supporting me when I needed it. I swear that I’m not a drama queen, I’m just prone to freaking the fuck out from time to time.