I am sick and tired of being sick.
Two weeks ago today I felt that little tickle in my nose. You know the one. The one that says you’re about to get a cold. Yeah, that one.
I felt it coming on and wondered which hand I shook that picked up the germs that were about to dominate my life for the next fortnight.
I hate being sick. The run-of-the-mill common cold deflates me into a puddle of poo. I get the running nose and the blowy stuff and that turns into a cough and I feel like crud and only want to crawl up in the bed and moan.
Unfortunately, you don’t get a doctor’s excuse from all the stuff you have to do, so you suffer through the monotony of life and try to hurry home and be sick. It is, after all, your cold. And if you don’t take care of you, who will?
Your wife? Ha!
Wives have no sympathy for husbands with a cold.
“Try child birth,” they say, knowing we have no comeback for that one.
So we slog along, scattering tissues in our wake, swearing we won’t use another cough drop, trying to pretend we feel better today than yesterday, yet knowing it’s actually worse than the day before.
Two weeks I’ve been carrying this cold. Enough already.
I want to breathe normally. I want to sleep soundly. I want my nose to turn back to its normal color. I want to stop hacking. I don’t want to smell like Vicks.
Or the next day.