Atchoo! Atchoo, atchoo, atchoo! Few things other than hangnails and paper cuts will get you less sympathy than a cold, probably deservedly so. After all, none are life-threatening, they are common, and each lacks drama. In my opinion, however, they are pretty high up there on the misery scale. Even though it's been at least seven, probably closer to ten years since I've had a cold, I recognized impending signs of sneezing and the scratchy throat. When the Kids were little, if I said it once, I probably said it fifty thousand times, "Blow, don't sniff." I really hated the sound of a kid with a runny nose who wouldn't use a hankie. And there I was yesterday down in the barn, sniffing to beat the band. Not that I didn't have a pocketful of tissues, but if I blew, it set the girls off in a panic, sure they'd heard the danger signal. Chores done, I stoked the fire and retreated to the recliner under a cloud-soft throw and napped off and on all day. I can never remember if it's "starve a cold and feed a fever," or the other way around, but I think it is starve a cold because there is no sense of taste and it's just a waste of time to eat. Late in the day, I bundled up and went out to bring more wood to the porch; I had burned every last log on the rack. The one good thing about a cold is that it is self-limited to about three days. This is day two.
Poor piddiful me. Atchoo!