Traffic Report

You know when you're feeling absolutely crummy, and you're all huddled up on the couch with the flannel blankets and you realize that you hear panting?

Are you familiar with the panting?

You know it's not a dog, because you don't have a dog. And you hope it's not a burglar, because in your weakened state the best you could hope for is to play dead. But then you have to admit that the panting is coming from you.

For days you have turned your red-rimmed eyes on unsympathetic passerby, pleading with them to feel your glands. Anyone duped into actually feeling your glands had better declare them to be at least the size of volkswagons, or else. And as if you haven't suffered enough, you've now been turned into a mouth-breather.

A pathetic, panting, mouth-breather.

Your nose is like the DVP during rush hour - it's a traffic jam, all right; nothing's getting in, and nothing's getting out. You look longingly at the kleenex box that's just out of reach, but you're tired. Very tired. So tired that breathing seems less important than staying under your 7 firm layers (plus socks).

So you just lie there, making strange huffing noises, until someone either notices you, or you suffer a brain aneurysm. And quite frankly, you don't care which.

Finally, miraculously, you have kleenex in hand. This is such a momentous occasion you actually sit up for it, and to get into better blowing position.

This is going to be good.

But then it's not good.

It's the most disappointing blow in the world. You honked, you wheezed, you snorted, and nothing happened. Nothing at all. Except now the traffic is backed up all the way, deep into your brain's sinus cavity, and the motorists are all honking their disapproval, and the exhaust fumes are thick, and you're fairly certain that no one has ever suffered this much in the history of the world, and you'd much rather die than draw breath from your raw throat once more.


Well, that was my week.
Literally. And figuratively.

How was yours?