Coughing and Sneezing

Sneezing and coughing.

Not a pretty sight at all if you ask me. The snot is seductively approaching your bottom lip and you forcibly wipe it away hoping it gets the memo. It doesn't as it playfully tries to follow the same path the previous boogers before it. They aren't so quick to surrender.

So you do the next best thing, take in a deep breath. As you do so, your lungs inhale with the sounds of a motorbike trying to come to life but lifelessly returning into pockets that are shaped in your nose.

The coughs that come out are not pretty either. You brace yourself to cover the shame with your hands, and desperately reach for the antibacterial green hand sanitizer that is conveniently sitting on your desk.

Use me, it says. You're all germy until you use me.

One pump later and you brace yourself for the next cough.

Only this time, the cough turns into a hack. Not a hack like the internet is so fond of. The type of hack where the sounds escaping from your esophagus actually turn up with a prize. A prize that is clear and gooey like the hand sanitizer or a light green silly putty.

You need this. You need it out of your system. That's the only way to get better.

You pop pills that are over the counter, wait for it to take effect, then wait another 4-6 hours for the next dosage. You want to say to yourself, I am not sick, it's just a little cold. But then your body hits you with a strong sneeze.

It's one of those sneezes that you need to control if you are in public. Not so much if you are alone in your room with your chicken soup and bunched up Kleenex tissues. When that sneeze hits you, your whole body convulses as your eyes close tightly and your head lunges forward. The debris of the sneeze is evident as you open your eyes and see the tiny specks of bacteria infesting the air. It's those types of sneezes that you have to watch out for in public, or else they will infect the rest of those around you.

You swallow the warm gunk back into your body instead of  releasing it onto a tissue space that is conveniently lurking behind the desk phone. It's not on your desk, and the little packet of tissues that your mom gave you to stuff in your backpack was clumsily left at home. You regret not packing it.

Curse your constant bickering with yourself that you are not sick. You are.

And yet you are still in denial.

Because you believe the science that it is all mental rather than physical.

And your bones are obviously telling you it is physical.