KYLE MOOTY

When someone calls you that you haven’t talked to in a while and you tell them how puny you feel, that you caught someone’s crud during the past week, then that person begins to tell you about his wife’s car wreck that caused major damage to their year-old SUV but she escaped injury, well, I find it very rude because, well, I’M SICK! I want to talk about me. Actually, I don’t want to talk about anything other than the fact that I’m sick.

I don’t care if the weather has been beautiful. I wouldn’t know. I just want to close the door, turn off the lights and get 60 minutes of consecutive sleep time without blowing my nose or coughing through the chainsaw of a throat I have remaining.

By the way, I feel awful.

Even my dog is realizing I don’t feel too good. She has been especially sweet, perhaps with that keen canine sense of hers that I am suffering. By the way, Lucy, nothing personal, but I haven’t had the energy to pet you much lately because, well, I’m sick.

Women will scoff at my misery, saying men can’t handle a common cold. When it hits you hard, there’s nothing common about it. Maybe men just get hit harder, I don’t know. Or, and I’m just asking here, do women even get colds? (Please, no throwing stuff at me..., remember, I’m sick.)

I’ve had three heart surgeries and at last count seven knee operations, but there’s something about a cold, reportedly from myself, that makes this the worst in history.

I’ve stopped at the local grocery and figured, why not, get the chicken noodle soup, only to get home and realize I have no appetite. Yep, that’s how sick I am. Food doesn’t even sound appealing.

Dear God, I’m sick.

But there are comforting signs during the illness of the millennium. It’s that moment when you find the perfect spot as you rollover in the bed. No pillow needs to be fluffed, the sheets are perfect in your body is comfortable. It’s the greatest 27 seconds of the day.

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