It’s a beautiful day outside, I think I’ll sit down and write my obituary. This is because I’m dying.
My nasal cavities are full of a thick, gelatinous-like substance which you could pave parking lots with.
According to the doctor, and I quote: “You just have a common cold, bud.” His medical license ought to be revoked.
This is not “just” a cold. It’s Purgatory.
And I know exactly where this deadly strain came from. It happened when my wife and I were on the way home last week.
I was sitting in a barbecue restaurant, minding my business, sipping my Budweiser, humming with the Christmas music playing overhead.
There was a girl. A toddler. The girl’s mother was carrying her. They’d just returned from the bathroom. Green snot rolled down the girl’s lip, she was hacking like a veteran coal miner.
This kid was bad news.
When they walked by, the girl stared into my eyes. She drew her head back, then coughed right at me. I felt it on my face.
Then she grinned. Her thin lips curled over her vicious little teeth. The deed was done. And now my body feels like it was used as a trampoline by the Budweiser Clydesdales.
The first thing you should know is that I am a man. And this means I am not a good sick person.
For example: I moan a lot when fighting a super-cold. Moaning is how men communicate effectively with their brides when they have sniffles.
We say: “Moooohh, uuuuugghh.” Which means: “I feel rather ill.”
And there’s: “Ooooh, aaagh, gaaawww.” When said with tears, means: “Sweetie, would you buy Gatorade, a Snickers, and a comic book on you way home?”
And: “Aaah sheeeeeezzz!” Often said with flailing gestures. This means: “I have exactly sixty minutes left to live.” Or: “The remote is four inches out of my reach.”
Anyway, when my wife gets sick, she never moans. She’s too busy.
Last week she was sick. She still managed to cook macaroni-and-cheese for the church potluck, mop floors, wash fourteen-years of laundry, dust ceiling fans, reshingle my neighbor’s workshed, and change the oil in my truck.
I can’t even feed myself.
This morning, my wife fed me breakfast with a spoon since the lethal virus has already spread to my arms. She was feeding me oatmeal, twirling the spoon in circles, making airplane noises while I moaned.
“Open up, Captain Tough Guy,” she said.
“Agghh aaggh,” I stated. Which means: “Did you remember to use synthetic Penzoil in my truck?”
Also: when I am sick—this is too much information—I need help going to the bathroom. Well. Okay. Not GOING to the bathroom, but GETTING there.
The average man with a cold needs an able-bodied woman to carry him, help situate him on the toilet seat, and clap for him while he concentrates.
So I’d like to thank my wife. I really would.
She does everything. Without her, this house would be empty and cold. And I’d have nobody to make chicken soup, hold ice packs on my forehead, or escort me to the bathroom and point out the irreversible marital consequences of leaving the seat up.
Thank you, honey.
I left my obituary stuck to the refrigerator.