There is a cute little poem in Spanish about a cold feeling like,
…In my throat I feel an ant running on a hundred long legs. (translation mine)
I memorized that poem when I was about 8 years old– a friend of mine had picked it as her piece for this really dorky annual poetry thing we had to do at school. I can still see her in my mind’s eye, blond hair flying everywhere and big green eyes popping almost out of their sockets as she dramatized the horror of a cold.
Minus her energy, I am savoring/living that poem and that memory. Because having a cold sucks such fat, hairy ones that it’s not even funny or fair.
But perhaps the cruelest thing about a cold is that it robs you of enjoying and even of tasting your food. Especially head colds are vicious that way.
I must have lucked out then, with this one (if such a concept is applicable) because this cold has allowed me to enjoy my food more thoroughly today than I have in a while.
I know, weird huh?
Maybe sometimes the body knows that you’re talking about food all month and you’d better keep your game in good shape; or maybe it’s just the simple but unalienable fact that sometimes the body shows gratitude in even the smallest of retributions to it. In other words, if you’ve been walking under the hot sun and coughing as if you were French, in the 19th century, and pining away for the love you’ve just shunned because you’re of low birth, a common woman, and you’re dying of consumption, your body is probably going to be happy when it finally gets to eat.
Or maybe sometimes you eat something good. And I can honestly say that I hadn’t enjoyed a tuna melt as fine and delicious as I did today. I enjoyed every single one of those million calories, as they slid down my ant-crawl-feeling raw throat, and I wouldn’t change a single thing.
Thank you, Tunnicliff’s, and thank you cold.