I'm guessing the patron saint of colds is mad at me for making fun of David last week regarding his man cold.
My cold has morphed into the cold to end all colds. I’ve caught the “Oscar,” the “Gold Cup,” the “Super Bowl” of all colds. In other words, a man cold. The only difference is this cold has ambitions of growing up and becoming the flu. It snuck up on me slowly at first, as I chronicled last week, so I was unaware of just what this super bug had in store for me.
The first day started innocently enough with just a slightly scratchy throat and a little bit of sinus congestion. No biggie. I can handle a little old cold. I’m tough. I’m strong. It turns out; I’m a big wiener. When I was younger, colds were nothing. I laughed at colds. Har Har! I’d say. I’d never met a cold I couldn’t make go away by ignoring it.
I didn’t think it was possible, but day two turned out so much worse than day one. Despite feeling like all I wanted to do was curl up in bed with absolutely no light and no noise until my head quit threatening to explode, I wanted to make up to David for making fun of his cold last week so I agreed to keep our golf date. We hit the local country club for 18 holes of (for me) extreme frustration. I had taken a couple of lessons from a golf pro a few summers ago and I was anxious to see if I remembered what I’d learned. After about four holes, what I learned was I can’t remember anything he told me.
I managed to last about six holes before I found myself dragging my traitorous body back to the cart after I’d hit a ball maybe about four feet. My arms and legs were feeling like spaghetti. I was NOT going to let a little thing like a cold/flu wanna-be get me down! No, siree!
The other golfers on the course seemed alarmed to see a woman slumped in the cart and slithering onto the course to hit a ball and slithering back. Golfers are such a polite bunch. Not a one approached David or me to ask why I was crawling on the course. I was hoping they’d think it was a new way to play and I was being a trendsetter. We (and by “we” I mean David) finally finished the round 25 (in cold/flu time) hours later and headed to the car.
When we got home, while David unloaded the clubs, I drug myself to my recliner where I sat so long my derriere is now permanently indented into my recliner. This was when my little last week's cold decided to ramp it up. I couldn’t get warm. I cranked up the air conditioning to 80 and needed two heavy blankets and the fireplace to keep me from shivering. What kind of cold makes you shiver and your teeth chatter? my cold-addled brain asked. Shut up, I said, I’m concentrating on getting warm. Talking to myself may be a bad sign and also alarms our two dogs although I’d think they’d be used to it by now.
Poor David. He’s resorted to wearing shorts and a thin T-shirt to keep from sweating like it’s a hot summer day–inside the house. Unfortunately for him, I can control the thermostat from my phone so he can’t try to sneak into the hall and turn the temperature down. Unfortunately for me, I'm not sure where it is and haven't the strength to look.
My head feels like a balloon that’s been over-inflated in my nose, and the coughing has started.
Not trusting him to do the grocery shopping since he'd most likely fill the cart with steaks and junk food, I decided it's up to me to restock the pantry.
I’ve heard fish is healthy and good for a cold or is that the brain? At this point I’m not sure of anything anymore, so I bundle up looking like I’m ready for the Iditarod, my favorite face mask included, grab my purse and head to my favorite fishin’ hole (the supermarket, where I get a lot of strange looks) so I can hook (throw in my cart) salmon steaks along with potatoes, chips, ice cream, cookies, pop, and candy. (It's okay if I do it. Don't judge. I'm sick.)
I’m following the old adage (or at least my spin on it): feed a cold, feed the flu, I don’t care.
And to my hubby, I'm sorry I made fun of your suffering through your man cold. I love ya anyway. Now would you please turn the thermostat up? I'm freezing.