I have a cold. I have my first cold in about eighteen months. I hate getting sick and I’m a lousy patient. But here I am. I over did the holiday prep, didn’t sleep, rarely wore shoes, and played fetch with Dex when my hair was wet. But the clincher—I sat in a hospital waiting room for four hours--a virtual Petri dish of bugs. Yeah. I asked for it.
My trusty Zicam failed. So did Airbourne. Had homemade chicken soup with extra garlic last night and a hot toddy before bed. Still sick. So today, I emptied the shelves at Walgreens—Benadryl, Theraflu, Nyquil, Dayquil, Vicks, Ricola, and orange juice—trying everything. The stuff knocked me out for two hours but I still feel like garbage and look like Meg Ryan in You Got Mail.
My husband tactfully has not mentioned that I skipped my flu shot this year and last. He gets his every year. So far he is not as sick as me. Sick or not, I think the flu shot is a mistake for anyone not on the critical need list such as babies, elderly, and chronic patients like my hubby. I can type this with a wad of used Kleenex in one hand and a mug of peppermint tea in the other. I oppose subcutaneous injection of viruses that cannot be cured, contained, or controlled. Hey, maybe it’s just the fever talking.
Good news. I lost three pounds. With the gain last week that makes a net loss of two pounds for December and a total of forty-five pounds down. Of course, I have consumed a pound of dates this morning, four glasses of orange juice, and a can of Campbell’s Chicken and Stars. It’s not likely I will be dropping anymore weight today.