Gesundheit!

"A bore is a man who, when you ask him how he is, tells you."
--Bert Leston Taylor

Did it begin last Friday, as I headed home from work? Maybe there were hints earlier? A drip or two out of my nose? A dry scratchiness to my eyes? If so, they were hints that could be overlooked.

But by Saturday morning, all doubt was gone. Runny nose, headache ... and sooooo sleepy. Oh, yes. I was coming down with a cold, all right, a cold of gigantic proportions. And this wasn't just any weekend, mind you. This was the big weekend when I planned to tackle all those irritating little legal tasks that I'd been avoiding for weeks. This was to be "catch-up weekend."

I did not go into the office Saturday. I slept most of the day.

Sunday was a little better. My nose still flowed like Niagara Falls, but I did keep awake long enough to prepare a pre-trial report that had been demanded of me. But no. I can't claim that it was a productive or enjoyable weekend. It sucked. And those many annoying tasks still remained to be done.

Monday was better. But with Monday, came the cough. Nowadays, any cold I catch goes directly to my lungs as soon as possible. Bronchitis is the immediate goal, although those buggy little viruses are aiming ultimately for the viral Superbowl, i.e., pneumonia. My lungs become a cesspool of foul substances. I coughed up gunk all day.

Tuesday it continued. I had to spend the day in court, observing another attorney's trial performance. Hack, hack, hack! The judge, the court reporter, the clerk -- all looked down upon me from their lofty heights, faces displaying a mixture of concern and annoyance. Sheriff's deputies were summoned to the courtroom. In my hallucinogenic paranoia, I could only assume they had come to drag me out of court to "dry out" in some secluded place (of which the courthouse contains many, all well equipped with bars). Counsel kept glancing back over their shoulders, as I interrupted their erudite arguments, coughing out particles of lung tissue onto the courtroom floor.

I was miserable.

I'm still miserable. I hate colds. I hate changes of weather. I hate trying to be brilliant and witty and charming when I just want to curl up in a ball and go to sleep. Where's my mom? Why isn't she around to tell me to take two aspirin and go to bed, and that I'll be fine in the morning? Why doesn't life permit "excused absences," like school used to?

Further details at eleven, together with tomorrow's weather.