Thursday, April 27, 2006

I have a code

Not like Morse code, or some other secret one you might create with your friends when you're 10 years old and love being goofy and elusive. But a code. Said "code". Spelt "cold". I can't actually give it its proper pronunciation. Because I have a code.

Colds are not nice. They are not pleasant. They are snot-filled. They are kleenex-filled. They are filled kleenex. When you have a cold, you look really stupid. I look really stupid. I'm sitting in front of the computer with my mouth hanging open and my eyes at half-mast. I'm reading witty repartee and not quite getting it. I'm certainly not capable of responding to it. The IQ goes down a full 10 points for each sinus that fills with mucus.

Then there's the whole tissue/kleenex thing. When I use the plain, basic brands, my nose gets all sore and red and disgusting. If I go for a moisturing brand, then my nose breaks out. In addition to being sore and red and disgusting. And what am I supposed to DO with all these used tissues? Carry around a little basket to collect them as I go? Constantly run back and forth to the bathroom or kitchen garbage? I'm too freaking tired to run back and forth. But if I make a pile next to me, the dog attacks them.

What is it with dogs and used tissues? My dog thinks finding these little items is a huge game. You'd think it was an Easter Egg hunt, the joy he exudes when he finds another yucky tissue. And the worse the cold, the more disgusting the mucus, the happier that damn dog is. I'd swear it on a stack of Bibles.

And whose fault is it, exactly, that I have this cold? My daughter's fault, of course. I caught it from her. She's 13, so she's not exactly rubbing her little snotty face on me while she's sick anymore. But she definitely was mucus filled and tired a few short days ago. And now I am. Ergo, I have my culprit. Don't I do enough for her that I should be spared this indignity? Isn't that fact that I no longer have a shapely rear end because it spends most of its life in a car driving her around enough to absolve me from all future colds?

I slept in until 10:30am this morning. Not necessarily from the illness, but from the cure. I took an antihistamine last night. And these damn things always make me feel like sleeping for the next week. I used to take them whenever I'd visit a friend with a cat. But now I've decided that I'd rather be itchy and running than dead to the world.

One of the worst things about colds is that they are not serious illnesses. You get no sympathy. No one brings you meals on wheels. You don't get a free pass on all activities. Yet they are a pain in the rear. No one wants a drippy person next to them at a concert, or making dinner. But no one thinks you should miss your daughter's band concert for a mere cold, nor do they think ordering in is a reasonable solution simply because you've got the sniffles. Either way, you can't win.

I'm going to go lie down. I'm going to moan gently. Then, as I know no one in my family will respond to this passive-aggressive approach, I'm going to wash my hands a million times and make dinner.

Or maybe I won't wash at all . . . . Nah. Then I'll have sick people to take care of in addition to being snot-filled myself.

Later,
Liz

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