Winning the Cold Medal

Really old (and somewhat disgusting) joke: What's green and figure skates? Peggy Phelgm. I missed two days of work last week due to the cold I caught from my two-year-old granddaughter, aka Patient Zero. I might have survived contact with this one-child plague zone, but I happened to bring with me her favorite blanket, which she'd left behind on her last visit, so she kept running up and kissing me. Mostly on the side of the knee, which, of course, is lip (and snotty upper lip) height for her. Since I'm equipped with monkey arms that hang to my knees (apparently God decided to use the bone that could have gone into making me an actual chin on longer arms instead), this means my fingers kept brushing the site of the contagion. The days I missed were Wednesday and (most of) Friday. On Thursday, due mainly to scheduled meetings, I dragged myself into the office and did okay. When, on Friday, I tried to repeat that trick, I wasn't as lucky. By 10 a.m. the cheery "bless you's" that reverberate in my office when someone sneezes had degenerated into sullen silence, marred only by the sound of people pulling garlic and silver crucifixes from their lap drawers. I chose to leave before the lynch mob could form. Because of my allergies, any sort of respiratory issues inevitably turns into a sinus infection, so on Friday afternoon I visited my family doctor, who prescribed an antibiotic. Only I HATE taking antibiotics (which breed supergerms) so I put off taking it until the next day, by which time I had morphed into a giant snot-ball. Just call me Peggy.