I think I have a cold.
I hate that.
Not the having the cold. Although it’s true that I’m a big fan of breathing, smelling, and that I believe that NyQuil was an experiment by a bunch of rogue pharmacists with congestion problems who had a warped sense of humor and a phenomenal marketing budget.
It’s the “I think” part.
I need to have a cold or not have a cold.
I need to know if I should be in bed watching tv that makes me want to share my credit card number with people who are selling triple-layered static-powered super dust-socks, or upping my dose of anti-histamines to effectively fight off the most recent assault of assassin allergens.
I need to either have ginger-ale and a package of Tylenol Cold and Flu at the ready, or be able to blink without discomfort and smell potential gas leaks for the safety of my family and pets.
One or the other, Mother Nature, one or the other.
This just makes me feel lazy and lame.
This makes me feel like a whiner.
I have a husband who perpetually thinks that he’s sick.
Actually, both of the men to whom I have been married suffered from this disordered thinking.
Husband 1.0 would, in the event of any GI distress, ignore the 13 Hostess Donettes he had just eaten and proclaim, “I have the flu.”
Himself will spend a week waking up with congestion that clears by midmorning yet still announce, “I have a cold,” ignoring the notable absence of additional symptoms and the transient nature of the illness. “You have morning cold,” I diagnose. “Maybe you’re pregnant with molds and mildews.”
Which goes over about as well as you’d think it does.
So I don’t want to be sitting her whining about “maybe” having a cold. It sounds like I can’t commit. Like I can’t pick a side. Or like I’m looking for sympathy.
I just want to know what color we are on Homeland Security Threat Level – are we Claritin clear or NyQuil green?
You know how unsettled I get without a plan.