No amount of harrumphing will dislodge either the tickle or the music. Next comes the exercise.
The diaphragm gets the most intense workout. A continual cough generates a workout that should result in a six-pack. Such an intense abdominal exercise should be Cristal or Dom Perignon. It is Champaign County after all.
Finally and reluctantly, I admit to a diagnosis. I have a cold. The six-hour naps in between coughing fits are a tacit second opinion.
Mindful that if I doctor my symptoms I will feel better and the cold will only last for one week (versus doing little to doctor, feeling miserable and having it last for a full seven days), I start the hydrotherapy. I drink so much that soon, I have a new definition of this malady running its course. Its course is between the bed and the bathroom and the bed and the bathroom and the bed.
The next step is an attempt at practicality. Rather than accessorize my nose with a bucket (a la sugar maple tree), I choose to stuff it with tissue. It worked — in two ways. I accomplished the original goal of stopping the flow. As an added bonus, I caught the gentleman’s eye. Husband greets me affectionately, “You’re foaming at the nose.”
Yeah, he has such a way with words — including the ones that bring a new sensibility to the situation.
“I don’t think it’s a cold.”
Really? When did he get his medical degree?
He was right. It’s allergies. Which means this crud won’t last one week.
Oh, good.
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