Cough, cough, cough.
Sniffle. Sniff, hack. Wheeze.
Yep, autumn is here – my lovely, colorful, ginger-scented
and pumpkin-spiced autumn. Rya isn’t the
only one who loves it. I’ve waited all
sweltering, dripping, bug-infested summer for autumn’s sharp, crisp mornings
and warmth-infused afternoons. Beautiful
quilted patterns in the multi-colored trees.
Huge pots of puffy chrysanthemums, grinning scarecrows, bundles of
endless corn shocks and hay bales. Cinnamon
tea and gingersnaps and that first burst of dusty, oil-scented air from the grumbly
ancient furnace. Personal heaters in the
old bedrooms to boost the snap and watery rumble of hot-water heat rising through
the old baseboards. I love it all.
Well, except for one thing.
(Sniffle.)
Without fail, every gold-frosted autumn brings with it a
small demon in the form of a bacterium with more facets than a bag of Dungeons
& Dragons polyhedral dice. My immune
system, which unfortunately has a pink neon sign flashing “C’MON IN!” and
readable to every microscopic bug and germ in the known world, has already
thrown out the free-lodging red carpet to the first cold bug of the
season. It has burrowed down into my
sinus cavity and has gleefully began tossing out its coded messages to my
respiratory system, which is now trying to drown me in my own thickening juices.
 |
| I feel ya, Cameron. |
Snort. Hack, hack,
sniff.
I know to start pumping up the Vitamin C when the folks at
the office start coming in armed with their own boxes of Kleenex and stand at
the secretary’s counter, red-eyed and pitiful, claiming they’re sick (really?)
and they “just had to come in.” This is
the signal for me to repeatedly scrub my hands, close my office door, and ward
off every sniffler coming my way with a large can of Lysol. Sadly, one of those resilient little demons crossed
the Valley of Antibacterial Hand Gel, fought its way through the Lysol Cloud of
Death, and slid unseen under my door, where it was welcomed happily by my dumb-assed
immune system, which wouldn’t know a bacterium from a Basset hound. Eventually, it will remember its real duty and
kick the cold out on its ear, and I can head back to the office…only to
probably pick up yet another strain from a loo-la who “just had to come in.” Stay home, dammit! That’s what sick leave is for!
Cough, cough. SnorHHooooork. (Sorry, that was gross.)
The good news is I can drink all the hot tea I want. Lots and lots of tea. I can stay home and catch up on all of the
shows I recorded last week. I can work
on story stuff. Or, I can just
sleep. Ah, Nyquil-induced sleep is the
best. No weird dreams, no aches, just deep,
peaceful sleep – as long as I remember to turn off my phone, or Telemarketer
Bob will be asking me if I want to donate my kidneys to the Lady of Perpetual
Back Pain shriner’s convention.
In the meantime, pass the Nyquil please. Good health to all. And wash your hands.
--Rebecca
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