I think it’s been pretty well established how much I love this season. Right now 50 reasons why just popped up in my head and I probably said them already.
But I have a deep, dark secret: I also hate this time of year. Because every year, just as my joy is reaching a fever pitch and the rapture is oozing from my pores in cinnamon-scented ecstasy, this guy shows up:
Every. Damn. Year. He shows up with all his underemployed former frat boy friends and offers them a place to crash in my lungs. Then they hook up with some nasty bar trash who got kicked out of someone else’s lungs, and invite them to come and stay, too. Then they get busy. I think you get the picture.
Last year, it was pneumonia. This year, it’s merely bronchitis. It’s always there, though. And I am so PUT OUT about it, because I am desperate to take down Halloween and put up Thanksgiving decorations. Which I totally have. Duh.
I also had these plans to keep the kids home today and actually celebrate All Saint’s Day. I was going to take them to a big, fancy old-fashioned church in the city, take them to visit our ancestors’ graves in the St. James of the Sag cemetery (dating back to the 1800’s!) and/or my Polish relatives buried at St. Adalbert’s and put candles and flowers on the graves like they do in Europe on All Saint’s Day. And have a big family dinner. But no. I am down. DOWN. In a sinkhole of fatigue and coughing and misery that smells like Vick’s Vap-o-Rub and tastes like the defeat of all my hopes and dreams.
And the kids went to school today like nothing special is happening, because Mucous is not content to just ruin my life, it’s got to take my loved ones down with it. Stupid Mucous. I hate you.