About ten days ago, I found myself thinking, Hey, here it is February and I haven't yet gotten sick this winter. Of course, even just thinking this was as good as eating a double-scoop ice-cream cone where the ice-cream was replaced by germs. Or having a large, germ-covered housefly fly straight down my throat and directly into my lungs and buzz around in there splotching its hairy, germ-covered body repeatedly against my vulnerable alveoli. Or going outside soon after a shower, while my hair was still wet, having forgotten a hat, and walking fifteen blocks in twenty-degree weather. That last one is what I did, the very next day.
That night, I had a sore throat. The next day, I had a cold. Nothing major. Nothing life-threatening. (I hope.) I've been taking Theraflu at night so I can get the same fitful five hours of sleep that I regularly do. And I've been able to get a little bit of work done and still make it to my kid's school to pick him up ten minutes after I was supposed to have everyday like usual. But lots of phlegm, sinus pressure and some coughing—and the sore throat has stuck around. By the looks of things, ten days into it, with no signs of abating, this is the cold I will ride out the winter on.
Coincidentally, I've been listening to Jonathan Richman's first album, The Modern Lovers, and it's been making me feel better. I hadn't listened to it in years, and, man, it's so totally great. Has anyone ever sung better with a stuffed-up nose?