Is it wrong of me to be waiting for bronchitis to set in? As my husband hacks up a lung every night I wonder when, not if, I am going to come down with this particular affliction. I fear that I will. It’s only a matter of time. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Since being home from CA I have managed to go to work, do laundry, clean the litter boxes, take out the trash, make dinner every night – including a killer Thai soup for Kisa (if only to clear out his sinuses with a healthy dose of red curry paste) and read (I have started Personal History by Katherine Graham and Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien and finished Bread and Jam for Frances by Russell Hoban for those inquiring minds). What haven’t I done? Walking. In truth I have done minimal walking. Like less than two miles a day. Let me repeat that. Less. Than. Two. Miles. A. Day. Pathetic, sad, crappy I know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t confuse jet lag with what I am feeling currently. Every morning I say This is the day I will log 10,000 steps (or five miles, however you want to look at it). This is the day I am going to downward dog and sit up. At the end of the day it doesn’t matter because it didn’t happen.
I think it’s because I am waiting to get sick. My preemptive strike is to take it easy before the illness takes me out. I should have stocked up on all those catchy named catch-all cold remedies like Emergen-C, Cold-Eeze and Airborne. My relatives were handing them out and chugging them down like frosty margaritas on a muggy fourth of July. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. I’m full of excuses.
In truth, the bronchial waiting is over. I should be giving my lungs something else to worry about, like a hard New Guinea run. Enough said.