Yesterday afternoon I conceded defeat, assumed the curl up and die position and stuffed tissue up my nose. Valiant efforts were made to ward off the impending infirmity but I was declared the loser, weakly waving a Kleenex in surrender.
Laying on the couch I fell into the fitful sleep of the sick, huddled under a blanket that wasn't warm enough to fight off the chill and feeling too weak to go find another one. Since childhood I've had two recurring nightmares, one for when I'm sick and one for when I'm stressed. The nightmare I have when I'm stressed showcases an approaching tornado from which I cannot run fast enough. The nightmare I have when I'm sick is all about a cotton ball. A giant cotton ball. It's fluffy softness descending gradually until it covers me. I am swallowed up by its size and then I am smothered. It's pretty disconcerting. Fully anticipating Revenge of the Giant Cotton Ball Part 2 when I went to bed last night, I was pleasantly surprised when in my dreams I merely went door to door in my neighborhood begging for tissues.
My Grandpa Lew had a cure for feeling like this. It was a mixture of lemon and cayenne pepper and other things that shouldn't be swallowed together. Guaranteed to cure the common case of malaria, smallpox or diphtheria, it also, as I remember my mom saying it, put hair on your chest. But cayenne pepper shouldn't be swallowed like that and I don't want a hairy chest. My mom's cure requires a cup of bleach in the dishwasher, a suggestion that has always annoyed me until I talked to my Grandma Mac and she suggested the same thing. Audrey's going to hate me. I prefer a more natural approach to regaining my health, which mainly involves whining to Jon about how awful I feel. He loves that.
I've watched many of my friends fall to the misery that has overtaken me. The good news is they've all recovered. So today I'll lie down on the couch, clutch my box of tissues, bemoan my fate and fight off the approaching cotton balls. It should be fun.
