The pestilence has spread. I’m not sure if it’s the cold I caught in Branson or the beaded strings of pollen dripping from our oak tree, but I’m still sniffling and hacking. I’m sorry to say Rick caught it a few days after I did. At least we’re no longer contagious (so we’ve been told), but must weather this annoying cough for however long it wants to hang around. This was not in my plan.
I used to be able to shake these bugs in a few days. I’d lather myself with Vick’s Vapor Rub, put on thick socks and pajamas and sweat the germ/virus to death. That method worked until I hit my sixties.
Maybe I need to be more mobile. Not that I’ve been spending all day every day in bed or on the couch. We’re still up early. We still have our routines. I’m still writing. I do get off my chair and move around occasionally. I’ve been up and down the stairs five times this morning. I go up and can’t remember what I needed or intended to do, and head back down before I remember. It’s an all too common thing these days, forgetting things.
That’s a good reason for having a note pad, pen and flashlight on my bedside table, just in case a good idea pops into my head in the middle of the night. Which does happen. Usually when I’ve forgotten the note pad and pen and have to slip out of bed quietly so I don’t awaken Rick or trip over Sarge and go to the kitchen to jot my note on the grocery list. Sarge has gotten used to my nocturnal wanderings. He raises his head. Time for breakfast? At 2 a.m.? In your dreams, buddy boy. He flops down again. When I read the grocery list the next morning, I wonder why I thought that idea worth getting out of bed to write down. Oh, well.
I’m coughing again, and I can’t remember where I put the Ricolas, the tasty ones with Echinacea and honey-lemon. I must be out of them, which means I’ll need to go to the grocery store. Or just brew a cup of tea and lace it with brown sugar.
Am I really still sick? Or is this just self-designed procrastination?