As I alluded to in my previous post, I’ve been saddled these past few days with what we call in the business, a head cold. I had originally planned on milking this thing into a weekend of lazy, do-nothing, three-naps-a-day glory. But what I’ve found, however, is that proclaiming, “I’ve got a cold!” doesn’t really garner much sympathy around these parts. My girlfriend still expects me to take care of the dog, clean up after myself and find my way into the shower at some point before noon – all of which seem to take more energy when you’re looking forward to an appointment with the couch and a Roseanne marathon.
Maybe I’d see different results if I followed my grandmother’s lead. She always gets extra attention when she comes down with something. Her secret: There’s no such thing as being a little bit sick. It’s always the end of the world when she catches something. I don’t think a simple cold has ever infected her body. No, she’s always the victim of The Influenza or The Pneumonia. It sounds much more important when you lengthen the title and add a “The” to the beginning. You think Grandpa just died of some silly run of the mill liver disease? Hell no! The Cancer got him.
Me: Care for a chicken wing, Grandma? We’ve got extras.
Grandma: I can’t eat that stuff…gives me The Diarrhea.
Me: Hmm. Thanks for sharing.
Even when Grandma would come down with something as minor as The Bug, it just sounded more serious. As a little kid, to hear her talk about how sick The Bug had made her, you’d think she’d just survived the Great Plague of 1665, when really she was relaxing in her big comfy armchair with a pirate smile on her face as her kids waited on her hand and foot. Just think of all those Columbo episodes she got to watch by herself without anyone demanding that she make lunch or iron their shirts. Maybe there’s a thing or two I can still learn from her after all.
Well played, Grandma.