Achoo! Yep, I've got a run of the mill common cold! Not really sick enough to stay in bed but sick enough to feel low grade lousy. I have a hard time hiding it when I'm under the weather because invariably, the second thing that goes is my voice. First, I feel a sore throat coming on and bam, then I get hoarse!
There are plenty of annoying things about laryngitis and one is the simple fact that I can't pretend I'm a-okay since it's a symptom that is quite apparent.
Plus, when people can immediately hear you sound sick you always get gobs of advice. Which is thoughtful but I'm a bit of a skeptic when it comes to the common cold.
Brent swears by taking echinacea and zinc and his track record for sick days IS nonexistent. But he's already established that he's bionic so his remedies don't really count for the common folk like me! Others hydrate citrus products by the galloon or down Nyquil by the hour. But I'm not convinced that any of it really staves off symptoms or shortens the duration of the cold anyway.
By and large, I think most colds take leave when they've run they're course. I'm just not sure whether trying to power through makes a cold last longer or not. Alas, there is one thing that always makes me feel momentarily better: a reading of Ogden Nash's clever poem titled "Common Cold".
Go hang yourself, you old M.D.! You shall not sneer at me.
Pick up your hat and stethoscope, Go wash your mouth with laundry soap;
I contemplate a joy exquisite, In not paying you for your visit.
I did not call you to be told, My malady is a common cold.
By pounding brow and swollen lip; By fever's hot and scaly grip;
By those two red redundant eyes, That weep like woeful April skies;
By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff; By handkerchief after handkerchief;
This cold you wave away as naught, Is the damnedest cold man ever caught!
Give ear, you scientific fossil! Here is the genuine Cold Colossal;
The Cold of which researchers dream, The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme.
This honored system humbly holds, The Super-cold to end all colds;
The Cold Crusading for Democracy; The Fuhrer of the Streptococcracy.
Baccilli swarm within my portals, Such as were ne'er conceived by mortals,
But bred by scientist wise and hoary, In some Olympic laboratory;
Bacteria as large as mice, With feet of fire and heads of ice
Who never interrupt for slumber, Their stamping elephantine rumba.
A common cold, gadzooks, forsooth! Ah, yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth;
Don Juan was a budding gallant, And Shakespeare's plays show signs of talent;
The Arctic winter is fairly coolish, And you diagnosis is fairly foolish.
Oh what a derision history holds, For the man who belittled the Cold of Colds!
-Ogden Nash, The Common Cold
