Besides the fact that we’re annoying each other, a little tired of being land-locked and our cabin-fever is at an all-time high, another undesirable by-product of this record-breaking winter is that we’ve become a household of sickos.
(A nod to Christine for her inspiring post.)
We are doing what I call trading illnesses. With our son gone at college, there are three of us in the house. At any one time, at least one of us, often two, have a cold or the flu. Don’t worry. I’ll spare you the grim details.
We’re going through Kleenex faster than water. There’s hardly enough decongestant in all of Tosa to stop our noses from running. We throw away our toothbrushes weekly. We spend our many trips to Walgreens wandering the aisles in search of something, anything that might provide a secret, miracle cure. (Yesterday, I seriously considered a Neti Pot . That’s how desperate I am.)
I have visions of calling a service, something along the lines of an exterminator, to tent our entire house and fumigate it from the germs that are apparently embedded in our walls, sort of like toxic mold.
I no longer listen for the sounds of creaking floorboards to know that my family is awake. Now it’s a cough and a few sneezes to announce their awakening.
We wash our hands so much that they’re raw to the touch. It’s obviously not helping.
I have daydreams. They involve a beach and warm, sizzling sun. Something to bake the bugs until they shrivel up and die.
I know it’s only a page turn in the calendar, but I too am really glad it’s March.
