Opinion: Curse of the summer cold

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Summer colds are the worst. All I want to do is lie in bed wallowing in Netflix, Sudafed and self-pity, but the stupid sunshine keeps mocking me: “It’s beautiful outside! Come play! Or at least cut the grass!” Ugh.

On a side note, I’m pretty sure my husband Doo infected me on purpose. He was sick last week and had to work while I slept late and wasted the day on Facebook, feeling absolutely fine. I know the irony of it drove him crazy. Had the tables been turned, I probably would have done the same thing, but I’m still aggravated.

At first, I tried to deny my illness, blaming the sneezing and watery eyes on allergies (never mind that I don’t have allergies, except a recent one to avocadoes, which I’m vehemently protesting). The next day the runny nose set up camp in my sinuses, and by the third morning, I was experiencing full-on headache and fatigue. I knew I was in bad shape when I tried to order photos to the nearby pharmacy, where I’d also pick up ginger ale and more drugs (I pride myself on efficiency, even in dark times).

I live within 2 miles of three different CVSs, so when the cashier told me I was at the wrong place, I chalked it up to oversight. When the second store was also a no-go, I pulled up my email confirmation for the manager. She said, “You want East 126th. This is West 116th.” Jeeze-Louise, I wasn’t even on the right side of town! My 10-minute errand became a highly inefficient 45. In gorgeous weather.

Curse you summer cold! Peace out.

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