“It’s just allergies,” I said to Sammy. “It’s very common this time of year.”
“It just feels worse than allergies,” he said.
Then, Saturday, it hit me, the full array of sniffles and sneezing, puffy eyes and the realization that yes, in fact, this was a bad head cold.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t take you seriously, Sam,” I keep saying, Still.
One thing I miss about being locked up in our little COVID bubble pod is not being sick. We went over two years with no stomach bugs or head colds, and we felt great.
Max, Baylee, Sam, and I are all infected with this drippy crud, and I can’t wait for it to be gone. (We tested negative, by the way.) We lather the Vicks, rub our raw noses with the best Kleenex, and today I took my ritualistic sick bath, the kind that burns.
I love a hot bath. I always have since I was little. The water in my new awesome house gets very hot, too, so I had moments today during my soak when I wondered if it was too hot, but I almost welcomed the thought of tipping over into the abyss of some type of Wonderland, one where I was not sick or cold anymore. Not really, of course, but kind of.
I remember the magazine days when I would carefully hover the heavy Cosmopolitan over the bubbles so it wouldn’t get wet. The scent of the perfume ads that settled themselves between the shimmering pages wafted around the room as I read about people’s drama and dating tips.
I feel for people who don’t have running water in their homes, and also for those who don’t get to experience a hot bath. It’s magical. I’m grateful that I have a bathtub, and I’m also grateful for the hot water. Hopefully the scalding steam will help kill this dang bug.