Snotty attitude

My nose is a giant snot bubble.

My throat feels like I’ve swallowed 40-grit sandpaper.

My joints are creaking and my head is awash in mucoussy fuzziness.

I’m sick, and no amount of Kleenex (Ultra Soft because Wife care’s about my delicate sniffer) will soak up the liquefied boogers leaking from my schnoz. Believe me, I’m trying to evacuate the backup with blows that would shatter windows but all I get is a meager trace and the sensation of more junk filling in the empty sinus cavities.

I hate colds. Give me a good case of the flu that keeps me in bed, sweating and shivering while nausea racks my insides. I’ll take that over the need to blow my nose every two minutes.

It was 50 degrees Sunday morning, but that didn’t stop me or a few others from hitting the field for a little pre-Super Bowl football. My uniform, however, wasn’t conducive to the Green Bay-like conditions in the Valley of the “Sun.” When Wife asked me to throw on pants, I shrugged her off with my handy refrain, “Woman, I’ll work myself up into a froth in no time. Shorts will be fine.”

I’ve used that answer before – re: hiking in Flagstaff – with similar results: a head full of snot that hangs around for a week.

At least she’s not the type of spouse to say, “I told you so.”

In fact, she likes to remind me of that attribute, “Aren’t you glad I’m not the kind of wife to say ‘I told you so?’”

“Yes dear,” is all I can say. Being run down from the cold coupled with her pregnancy, I’m not on my game enough to argue. So, I slink back to the sick wing of the Compound, where Wife stores me and my gaggle of germs.

It wouldn’t be so bad down there either if Wife didn’t cellophane the door to keep the snot cells from mutating and parading down the hall to “her” bedroom.

I have feeling she’ll come home today and ask, “Come to the car dear, I have a present for you,” and there will be my new home – a plastic bubble with two holes at the bottom for my legs.
That would be a gift of love.