GARGH. ACK. UGH. UFF. BLECH.

I spoke too soon. Talk about jumping the gun, counting your eggs before they hatch, and all the other clichés you can think of. Just when I thought I was virus-free, I wake up, excited to see another day, try to hum "it’s a lovely eleven morning" from Sesame Street, and is greeted by a gravelly voice reverberating from my throat. Oh shit. It’s as if a grouchy old toad just lodged itself in there overnight.

Snort. I deflate as I exhale loudly through my nostrils and peer through the slits of my puffy, sleep-laden eyes. I feel like King Kong. Why can’t those damn planes just leave me alone!?! I’ve tried swatting my effing cold with the Dynamic Duo called Dayquil & Nyquil, and just when I thought it was safe to come out and slip and slide on the ice, I get clobbered again and shot in the back.

Snort.

I must admit that I really feel disappointed right now. I’ve spent the first two weeks of the new year trying to get rid of all this phlegm. Ugh. Not pretty, not pretty. And to think I had a lot of things lined-up for this month! I had a list. I wanted to be good and get organized and start the year on the right foot. Things to do. Things to scratch off the list. But then the sniffles came, then the steady pain in my head that dulled my eyes, then the cotton ball for ears, and now the scary raspy voice and the hacking cough.

Snort.

A friend pointed out to me the other day that maybe I should just lie down and let the virus do its thing. It’s bound to leave if I stop squiggling about. She added that maybe the real reason why they haven’t found the cure for the common cold is because it’s not supposed to be cured. Maybe we were supposed to get this thing to slow us down and keep us thinking about things. Maybe it’s a good time to really reflect on my plans for the year.

Hmmm… Snort.

Alright, alright. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m getting carried away again by all the possibilities of the new year. Too many things to do + too much expectations + too little time = another pressure-filled, crash and burn year.

‘RAF! WOOF! RUFF! EHEH!’, said Steph. Excuse me while I ponder on that and cough my lungs out.