Oh please, not NOW!

Last night, I felt the beginnings of a cold descend upon me--achy-ness, bone-deep fatigue, violent sneezes, and general orneriness (if that's a word--it certainly is a mood...just ask Linda). Started pounding echinasea (SP?) and vitamin C, went to bed as soon as possible (okay, after West Wing), and then slept in this morning (bless you, Linda, for feeding the herd), and now still feel a litte on the brink of illness, but perhaps drawn away a bit.

Goddess, I hope so! The timing could not be worse, with my immediate future including a comedy benefit tomorrow, comedy show in Boston Sunday, and business trip to NYC Monday-Wednesday (including an open mic), it would be a very, very bad time to get sick. Which means it still could happen--whatever is trying to stake a claim in my body could suddenly roar back and knock me on my butt.

Colds are mean that way, in my experience. I learned this young. When I was in grade school, I was a crossing guard. I don't remember which year it was, but there was a contest for crossing guards involving an all-expenses-paid trip to Wisconsin Dells (a very tacky theme park, but I was little and didn't care about such things--plus, my family didn't do theme park vacations, so I wanted to go desperately). I think a vote was involved, and somehow, I won. I WON!

Of course, I fell ill just before the trip, and the second-in-line, Mary M., went in my stead. I tried to be gracious and all (I liked Mary and think she came from an even more travel-adverse family than mine, if that was possible), but it hurt. I think I did finally get to the Dells when I was 11, but I was too old by then to enjoy it. Sigh.

That this was a little under 40 years ago is something I'm trying not to dwell on; the moral of the story being colds can mess up your life, and I'm praying this one is just here to inflict a little humility on my person. Humility is good.

Colds, on the other hand, are a drag.

And speaking of drags, thinking of Mary M. reminded me also of the creepy priest at Saint Mary's we endured while growing up. Mary was one of those girls who developed early (me, I'm still waiting). Our priest couldn't help but make mention of this fact during Catechism--Catechism! I don't know how Mary kept showing up every Wednesday, but she did. Made me feel sorry for her, and mad at the priest.

Wonder whatever happened to the old perv?

More importantly: Whatever happened to Mary?