I’m now going to indulge in some whiny self-pity. You’ve been warned.

Right now I have a little summer cold. A summer cold differs from a winter cold only in that it comes around in the summer, which gives it an aspect of ludicrousness that is usually missing from a winter cold. A summer cold is perhaps a bit more frustrating than a winter cold, because there seems to be absolutely no reason for it. It strikes out of the clear blue summer sky, and having people say, “But how can you have a cold? It’s the end of July…” does absolutely nothing to make the situation any better.

I hate being sick. I hate it, hate it, hate it. This isn’t any big revelation. I’m sure that most people hate being sick. My problem with being sick is that, during each stage of the sickness, I usually have the completely irrational hope that that stage is the last stage, and that all my symptoms will spontaneously disappear, leaving me healthy and chipper and full of life. I also always think that whatever stage I’m in is the absolute worst stage, because I tend to forget how awful all the other stages are. Every stage has its particular woes, and they’re all horrible.

Here are the stages of me catching a cold:

1. Jeremy catches a cold. This is often how it starts - he feels a scratchiness in his throat, and I feel a sense of impending doom, because if he catches a cold, it is fairly inevitable that he will pass it on to me. I try to convince myself that if I consume enough echinacea, I will not fall prey to whatever it is Jeremy has.

2. I watch Jeremy suffering through all the misery of the common cold, and I take care of him and think, “Thank God it’s not me”. My echinacea consumption increases, and as his cold wears off, I think that perhaps I have escaped with my health this time.

3. My throat starts to hurt. This is accompanied by much moaning on my part, because it slowly dawns on me that I have not in fact escaped, and that my misery is in fact just starting. I absolutely despise having a sore throat. It means that I can’t enjoy my food, and anything that interferes with my enjoyment of food is a terrible, evil thing indeed. When I have a sore throat, I always tell myself that the sore throat is the worst part of the cold, and that after it goes away, all will be well again. The echinacea is supplemented by throat lozenges and chamomile tea with honey. I feel the compulsion to swallow continuously, just to see if the soreness is going away or getting worse. This certainly doesn’t help matters any.

4. After about two days, my throat feels better. No other symptoms have shown up, and there is much rejoicing because I convince myself that the echinacea actually helped, and that I will not get a full-blown cold after all. I spend a day filled with false optimism and relief.

5. The next day my nose is suddenly completely blocked. No air gets in or out. I blow it repeatedly, but it does no good. I talk funny. I get really, really mad, because I realize that my rejoicing was premature.

I also realize that the stuffed up nose may actually be worse than the sore throat, because - horror of horrors - I can’t taste my food. I can tell if something is sweet, salty, or bitter, but actual flavors just aren’t there. Every meal is miserable, and I plummet to depths of self-pity. It’s a chore to eat because I have to breathe through my mouth, and I may as well be eating sand anyway, because I can’t taste a blessed thing. My only recourse is to eat something really spicy in the hopes that my sinuses will clear and my sense of taste will be restored. It never really works, though.

I give up on the echinacea. I tell myself repeatedly that once I can taste my food again, all will be well, and I will suffer through everything else without complaining. But during this stage, I complain - and sniff - constantly and am very irritable altogether.

6. The clogged sinuses start to loosen up, and I go through 10 little packets of tissues a day. Taste gradually comes back to me, but my nose gets all red and sore from so much nose-blowing, and I feel like I look like a snotty-nosed little kid. I also get a headache from so much nose-blowing.

As the sinuses loosen up, my lungs seem to want to get in on the deal, and my body becomes a little phlegm factory. It’s gross and horrible. I can’t sleep because I have to clear my throat every 10 seconds, blow my nose every 60 seconds, and indulge in a coughing fit every 2 minutes or so. I rattle as I breathe, and it sounds atrocious. Laughter dissolves into a fit of hacking. I don’t know how my body can possibly produce so much…so much stuff, so much icky, icky stuff. I long for the days when I just had a bit of a sore throat and nothing else. I’m a grouchy little bundle of misery. I sit on the couch and moan. Or write whiny journal entries.

7. The phlegm production wears down, and I am left with a dry, hacking cough that lingers for a while but eventually fades away. I hope that I have become immune to all colds and flus and bugs. I keep the echinacea handy just in case.

Right now I’m sort of between stage 5 and stage 6, and I am probably not very pleasant to be around. I’m irritated as hell, in fact, and I just hope that my sense of taste returns by tomorrow, because tomorrow is my friend’s birthday, and I am going out to a nice Greek restaurant, and I want to enjoy my food.

This is all much more information than you really need about me, I’m sure, but griping about how crummy I feel actually makes me feel a bit better. Misery loves company, or something.

And yes, I can hear the sound of the world’s tiniest violin. Play away.