I really hate when I catch a cold. I hate it more when I am robbed of my sense of smell because my sinuses are so stuffed, I can’t breathe. And I hate it the most when it happens the week of Thanksgiving. Because if I can’t smell, I can’t taste. What’s the point of living, if I can’t taste anything this week? I have mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie waiting for me.
What’s it even mean “catch a cold?” I definitely did not go out hunting colds hoping that I would catch one. Didn’t want to bag a 10-point cold. I’ve been avoiding kids like the plague because they are steeped with germs. And I haven’t been around just too many people since I’ve been largely chained to my house for the last 2 months. This cold caught me. It’s like a raging, homicidal cold that was hellbent on getting me down this week.
Or maybe I caught a cold from the ice inside my soul.
Regardless of how I got it, this cold is making me dangerously unmotivated. I already have to talk myself into doing my boring PT exercises, and now I really just want to mope around in bed, wallowing in self-pity and avoiding all extraneous activity. That means basically all activity, except going to the refrigerator for Sprite and to the bathroom. Anything else is unnecessary because my energy is obviously more well spent by being a drama queen about how my lack of taste has robbed my life of meaning.
I have to go to PT in the morning, and I don’t really want to explain that I haven’t done my exercises in 3 days because I was too busy being miserable. So I have to get off my rear end now and go do some leg lifts! Calf raises! Quarter squats! Heel slides! That’s fake enthusiasm, folks. That what I use to motivate myself or when I can’t bear to tell a three-year-old what I really think of their drawing of me. It usually works… on the three-year-old.