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?