Death By Cold

There comes a point during every cold where I assume I’m going to die, “This is it,” I think to myself, “I need to start getting my affairs in order.” And by affairs, I mean outlining who is going to get my collection of Harlequin romance novels and mismatched sock collection. I start texting my loved ones my dying wishes, “I want to be buried in a white Calvin Klein suit, silver Valentino pumps and then cremated on top of the Egyptian pyramids.” After I hit the send button, I imagine their reactions. I’m sure they’ll be devastated, I’m sure they won’t be able to picture their lives without me. Tears start seeping out and my sinuses become further clogged. Blowing my nose and coughing up phlegm the replies start pinging back.

“You can’t be buried and cremated. Pick one.”

“Which Egyptian pyramid? Be more specific.”

“I’m pretty sure they don’t let you climb to the top of the pyramids. Do you want us to get arrested in Egypt over you?”

“Ugh, you aren’t dying. Take a damn SudaFed.”

So, the lack of sympathy was hurtful and unwarranted. Everyone who knows me knows I have a deviated septum and incredibly large tonsils. My tonsils are like the dream-catchers of germs. If someone sneezes across the room, I end up with an upper respiratory infection. Doctors have even told me that my tonsils are roughly the size of golf balls. And yes—I know I was complimenting our bodies just the other day, and going on about how we all essentially have engines of art and beauty wrapped within us. I, however, got the Buick of immune systems.

If we lived in a Darwinian society based on survival of the fittest, my life span would have ended around the age of two. It is only through the magic of antibiotics and Vicks Vapo-rub that I have survived this long.

And quite frankly, this cold may be the death of me.

So if I don’t make it, bury me in a white Calvin Klein suit, silver Valentino pumps and spread my ashes over the Egyptian pyramids!