I celebrated prematurely. Premature celebrations of health — those are the worst kind, aren’t they? You’re all, “woohoo, life is good,” and then as the confetti settles, you’re all, “oh, crap, I still feel kinda like something flattened by a Mack truck.”
Pretty sure it was just a cold. Just a cold. Heh. But it hung on, fighting to keep occupying my immune system (Occupy Immune System. Ha. Kind of like Occupy Wall Street. Or, you know, nothing like it.) for a solid two weeks, before my immune system was finally able to knock it out with a one-two punch. Because I like to envision that my cells are are in a boxing ring, and after taking a beating, they come back and deliver the last, crushing blow. Is that not how you imagine your immune system?
Anyway, it got me thinking. About the ways in which I try to make myself feel better when I’m knee-deep in tissues and snot or bellyaches. There are just certain things that always seem to work – even if it’s just a placebo type of working.
For starters, I like to watch the heck out of my favorite musicals. My go-tos are Dirty Dancing, Grease and The Sound of Music. Yes, I have varied tastes. I like to think it makes me multi-faceted. I can appreciate John Travolta shaking his tushy while singing sugary sweet pop songs, and I can also appreciate the awesomeness of the Von Trapp family and their triumph of sticking it to the Nazis – with music, you guys, with music. Good stuff.
Then there’s the food standbys. Namely, chicken noodle soup. I’m well aware this is terribly clichéd, but you’ll have to look past it. Or not, whatever; it’s up to you really. But the point is, chicken noodle soup has healing, restorative powers. We all know it. I’m personally a fan of Campbell’s Chunky Chicken Noodle, which provides a heaping bowl full of delicious noodles, chicken and medicinal broth.
Same goes for ginger ale. I never drink ginger ale unless I’m sick. And then, as soon as I realize I don’t feel well, it’s the first thing I want. It, too, has healing, medicinal properties. I’m convinced.
Then, last but not least, I like to wear the heck out of my oldest, rattiest clothes. There’s something about wearing my sweatpants that l’m ashamed I ever bought, that ratty t-shirt that’s so threadbare and soft it’s as comforting as a childhood blanky and, my husband’s college hoodie for good measure.
And that, my friends, is how I get through the sick, when I’m down with the sick and want desperately not to be. Tried and true. Give it a whirl, and let me know if you get “Doe, a Deer” stuck in your head. It’s ok if you do.
The Frozen Southerner 