The thing about low-level misery is you don’t want to mistake it for high-level misery.
I’ve had a summer cold, and it hasn’t been fun: a little bit of fever, coughing, sneezing, nose-blowing, sore throat, body aches, hallucinations of Tupelo City Council members building a pool in my backyard.
That last one isn’t true. They’re not digging a pool, nor did I hallucinate them. In my weakened state, it was the funniest way I could think to end the previous paragraph.
It’s sad, I know, but don’t pity me. The world’s filled with real troubles and real pain. As Col. Potter told Father Mulcahy on the television show “M*A*S*H,” “This, too, shall pass.”
Potter was referring to dysentery, which is what makes it such a great line. Get it?
Luckily, I’ve had no stomach trouble, but I dubbed myself “The Mucus King,” although “The King of Mucus” sounds good, too. I’ve wavered between the two.
If you’re going to have a cold, summer is the absolute worst season for it, followed by spring, fall and winter.
The air gets thick in summer. Who wants thickened airways to go with it?
Some might argue a burst of freezing air adds extra woe. As far as my nowhere-near-death’s-door experience goes, nothing beats slamming into a wall of motionless, moist air that’s been baking over a parking lot all day.
Spring comes in second and fall third because of the many allergens that can add to the discomfort.
Winter’s no picnic, but I think I’ve clearly proven it comes in fourth place in this race to the Kleenex box. Done and done, as they say.
If you think differently, then, quite frankly, I’ll have to start questioning your judgment on any number of other issues.
Hey, sorry about the previous paragraph. It’s only low-level misery, but it makes me cranky. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. Still, summer’s the worst, and I’ll hear nothing more about it.
Work hasn’t been as bad as I’d expected. The finished product might turn out truly terrible, and the word “might” might be generous, but the act of working takes my mind off the cold – at least until I write “cold,” then guess where my mind goes.
Into every life a little mucus must fall. I hope that’s true. The thing that would change my low-level misery into the mid-level variety would be the sure knowledge that there are people who don’t, in fact, have snot fall into their lives.
People have told me, “Scott, I don’t get sick,” but I refuse to believe them because that would be too horrible to contemplate. Low-level misery is short-term, and it’s something we’re all supposed to share.
About that, I’m sorry if I shook hands or otherwise made contact with you this past week. My bad.
M. SCOTT MORRIS is a Daily Journal feature writer. Contact him at (662) 678-1589 or firstname.lastname@example.org.