My plans for the day are as follows:
1. Not dying.
2. Not going to work. Again.
3. Actively getting better, damn it.
5. Work on my own manly afghan, which is already not manly in color, but still manly in design.
I am pissed off. I feel so much better than I did a week ago, but I just cannot shake this cold and I sit at work and fall asleep at my desk. I feel like, if I could just get enough sleep, I would feel better, but folks, I’m writing this after eleven hours of sleep. I just can’t sleep any more. I’m not tired.
There has been one small victory with this cold, which I will now share with you. I have never been this sick for this long without it developing into pneumonia. Never. I’ve had pneumonia six times. I have the lungs of a 50 year old life-long smoker. If I get something in my sinuses, it usually takes a quick run into my lungs where it settles in and tries to drown me*.
But this time? If I could unclog my nose, I could breathe. The lungs are clear.
Which, I believe, leads me to a disturbing realization. Though walking the dog every morning (except recently, obviously) and taking her to the park at least once a weekend for a longer walk and eating more fruits and vegetables has not resulted in any less of a soft and cuddly Aunt B., by god, I think I’m healthier.
How else to explain how this malingering illness has remained so relatively benign?
Still, if I’m not better by Monday, I’m going to break down and go to the doctor.
*How I suspect I will actually die, drowning in my own snot, if high places don’t kill me first.