The Summer Cold
In the opening scene of the classic film, The Philadelphia Story, the divine Cary Grant cups his hand over the face of the equally divine Katharine Hepburn and unceremoniously pushes her to the ground. In a figurative sense, and minus the divinity of either Cary or Katharine, that is exactly what happened to me on Friday. I was pushed to the ground by that bane of the holiday months, the summer cold. Now to be sure, colds are nasty little fiends anytime, but it seems the summer ones are worst. The small comforts that are afforded one by the winter cold - the hot soups, the warm blankets, the fleecy robes - well, those just seem frightfully uncomfortable in the hot heat of a fourth of July weekend.
Unsuspecting, and with my guard down, I suppose, I quite suddenly noticed the tell-tale signs on Thursday night. The oh, so prophetic scratchy throat. Sure enough, by Friday, I had begun to feel as if there were little weights around my ankles and wrists along with invisible hands persistently pushing down on my shoulders, and there was no doubt as to what was in store for my next couple of days. Grateful that no serious responsibilities lay whinging on my doorstep for the weekend, I decided to take the advice I would give to someone else, and rest. So, I donned my favorite pair of white cotton men’s pajamas, complete with my monogram on the pocket, I put my hair up, fluffed up my feather bed, and crawled between lavender scented sheets. With a vase full of gardenias on the bedside table, and Edward keeping solemn watch, and frequently dozing, by my side. For his part, the devoted Edward did not mind a couple of quiet days, it is too hot outside for his liking anyway.
I can report that there are certainly worse things than drifting hazily in and out of sleep for a day or so. And the prescription seems have worked like a charm, for I do feel so much better.
In the opening scene of the classic film, The Philadelphia Story, the divine Cary Grant cups his hand over the face of the equally divine Katharine Hepburn and unceremoniously pushes her to the ground. In a figurative sense, and minus the divinity of either Cary or Katharine, that is exactly what happened to me on Friday. I was pushed to the ground by that bane of the holiday months, the summer cold. Now to be sure, colds are nasty little fiends anytime, but it seems the summer ones are worst. The small comforts that are afforded one by the winter cold - the hot soups, the warm blankets, the fleecy robes - well, those just seem frightfully uncomfortable in the hot heat of a fourth of July weekend.
Unsuspecting, and with my guard down, I suppose, I quite suddenly noticed the tell-tale signs on Thursday night. The oh, so prophetic scratchy throat. Sure enough, by Friday, I had begun to feel as if there were little weights around my ankles and wrists along with invisible hands persistently pushing down on my shoulders, and there was no doubt as to what was in store for my next couple of days. Grateful that no serious responsibilities lay whinging on my doorstep for the weekend, I decided to take the advice I would give to someone else, and rest. So, I donned my favorite pair of white cotton men’s pajamas, complete with my monogram on the pocket, I put my hair up, fluffed up my feather bed, and crawled between lavender scented sheets. With a vase full of gardenias on the bedside table, and Edward keeping solemn watch, and frequently dozing, by my side. For his part, the devoted Edward did not mind a couple of quiet days, it is too hot outside for his liking anyway.
I can report that there are certainly worse things than drifting hazily in and out of sleep for a day or so. And the prescription seems have worked like a charm, for I do feel so much better.
