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THE COMMON COLD

I am sitting at the computer, with bright red nostrils, watery slits for eyes and Vicks Vapor rub smeared all over my congested chest. Not a pretty sight. A huge box of super strong tissues beside me. Insofar, I have sneezed sixty-two times today. I think I broke a record. Or a capillary. I can't believe there's that much liquid in one body.

I am the victim of Rhinovirus (from the Greek rhino, meaning nose). In layman's language: The Common Cold.

At the risk of sounding like a complete germophobe, I do everything humanly possible to avoid catching it. Disinfect my hands countless times. Do not touch strange doorknobs without a tissue wrapped around. Air kiss. And become a recluse between October and May.

Unfortunately, some things are entirely out of our control. Such as last week, in the supermarket, when I stood behind a young woman sneezing her inconsiderate brains out. Without as much as even pretending to cover her contaminated mouth. Spraying everything and everyone in her path, with a mist of Rhino riddled spittle. Gross! To compound the situation (in case the first attack of germs didn't get me) a squirmy six year old, being held by his protective mother, coughed his little lungs out all over my mangoes.

I love when people deceive you by telling you their miserable cold is an allergy.
"Oh, it's only allergies," they lie. "I always sneeze and wheeze in the fall. The dry leaves and all."

And the following week, you're in bed with a 102 fever, with the same, ahem, sneezing and wheezing. "Must have caught your allergy, Shirley. Thanks a whole bunch."

But back to my current contamination. Two days later, it hit me like a ton of bricks. Fatigue. Headache. Proceeded by the usual runny nose. Congestion. And last, but certainly not least, the hacking your lungs up cough, which generally lasts about a year.

The war to destroy me had begun.

I always foolishly think that when I get a bad cold and I'm forced to stay in, that I can accomplish so much. Like clean out the closets. Or paint the spare room. Yeah, right. As they say, "The mind is willing"

But, life has to go on. And the usual chores must be attended to. So you smack yourself around a little. Drink a big glass of H20 and swallow a few C's. And despite your 101 degree temperature, faucet running nose, major headache and your deepest desire to lie in bed like a dead toad, you plow ahead. After all, you fully realize that if you don't drag yourself into the kitchen and make yourself some sort of nourishment,

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