The black smear above my left eye is yesterday's
mascara. My personal hygiene has also been
compromised. And my nose appears to have lost its
I have a cold. A vicious, nasty, slap me down to the floor cold. And nothing - well, perhaps the IRS - gets less respect than a head cold. Even the name is a misnomer. The misery goes far beyond the head. Chills, fever, coughing. And that's the fun stuff. My nose is raw. My eyeballs hurt. My hair hurts. I'm beginning to doubt that this is a cold. I have, I fear, East Nile Mad Cowbird Flumonia.
Remember that truism: "If you ask for patience, you'll get lots of chances to practice it." Well, evidently the same holds true for civility. I'm trying. I'm really, truly trying to practice what I've been preaching.
My friend, Deb, said, "Chicken soup, tea with honey and lemon." And added, if we were closer, she'd make a batch and bring it over. She would. Good woman. Alas, I live on San Francisco Bay and she is in Birmingham, Alabama. Walt wrote "sleep juices chicken soup." Added "good luck", bless his heart. At the moment, the only way I'm getting chicken soup is if a hen walks in, throws herself in a pot (after laying a couple of fresh eggs) and serves herself up.
Out of honey, I did make a cup of Irish Breakfast tea with lemon. Went something like this. I lay in bed, my head underneath the duvet clad in yoga pants, wool socks, a tee, a sweat shirt and a coat. Wishing that I still had hot flashes. "Tea. She said tea." I rolled over. "Tea." Pulled the duvet down. Pulled it back up. Thought through the process: tea would require filling a cup (thank you, Shannon, for the "Peace" cup...I need this). Then I'd have to walk across the kitchen (three steps) and microwave the water. This would involve standing for two minutes. Then I'd have to wait for the tea to steep. That would be another minute. Tear open two Truvias (oh, the agony of the sound of paper ripping). Cut a lemon. Could I be trusted with a knife?
I finally dragged into the kitchen and made the tea. Drank it. Decided to write a post to get my mind off things. After all, I can lie flat and type on the wireless keyboard with my eyes closed. So here I am, sharing the joys of cold-dom with y'all. Now, though, I'm headed back to bed. Just one more thing: Is it "Starve a fever; feed a cold" or "Feed a fever; starve a cold?" And what happens when you have both? Intervention, please.
I'm back in bed, under the duvet. I've peaked and am sinking once again. My eyeballs have maxed out. This may be serious. I don't even want to watch "Say Yes to the Dress", the episode with battling sisters. And I suspect the fevers make me delusional: I feel wittier than I am. Therefore, in order to regain my sense of civility, I'm practicing patience.
Patience is the ability to idle your motor
when you feel like stripping your gears.