3 AM. Clinging white knuckled to breath, I curled further and further up on my pillow, as if the final nautilus shape would allow me to inhale and exhale clearly, without the suffocating bands of elastic mucus winding from my sinuses through my esophagus and squeezing my sore throat closed, as they constantly threatened. I hate colds. My eyes are all gummy, with salty crusts drying in my crow's feet. I'm caught between fruitlessly snorting into wads of toilet tissue and swallowing indefinite phlegm. And with each swallow, my throat aches. Thursday, following my mother's advice (read: repeated nagging) I gargled with warm salty water until ready to vomit, so my tonsils don't hurt sharply like they did, but they aren't mended yet.
I'm not sick enough to avoid work (I have a new tutoring student starting this evening), but I can't welcome contact--at my job interview I offered a cordial elbow to the committee instead of a handshake--and when skulking around furniture shops Friday afternoon, closed-mouthed and sniffing, I was appalled at young parents exposing defenseless newborns to such silent lepers as myself.
I'm rather fond of my liver, and so I am trying not to max out on NyQuil, though waking up miserable in the wee hours isn't pleasant. I'm exhausted, but not sleepy. Meantime, I've had the dubious pleasure of catching up on the year's top music videos--if the sounding off of the ultimate Trump weren't sign of apocalypse enough, Justin Bieber at #1 certainly is--as I am too twitchy to read and too tired to get up and create. Or clean. Grandmommy's to come for Christmas and stay in my room (I'll decamp upstairs for the duration), and preparations necessarily entail the moving of mountains of (clean) laundry, vacuuming and other sprucing-up. I don't know what she'll think of the large female nude painting opposite my bed! Maybe I should put it up, as she'll already have to deal with the stained glass window of the bathing lady that is installed over the tub.