You may be aware, if you’ve dropped by Paris recently — or anywhere in Europe really; or in the world, it would seem — that it is already springtime. In the middle of February. Last year, we had snow at that time. But hey, global warming is just a theory, right?
Anyway, this is obviously the time I chose — or rather my body: I would have gone another direction — to get sick. Granted, it’s already the third time this ‘winter’ (after a 6-month stretch with a sparkling bill of health: I’m very seasonal). And every time is getting more annoying than the last: first time was real, i.e. it was cold outside, and I was tired from work and I somewhat overstretched myself (I’m not that flexible), so that was not too much of a surprise. Although it was an unwelcome one.
The second time was right around the time we went to New York for new year’s: we had positive temperatures there (in Celsius: again, see global warming), and we were on vacation, so there were less reasonable explanations for not being able to keep it together. But I then told myself — at least, this will be the last time this winter/spring. I then finished a rather demanding work project, the weather got better (again, see above), the cat was happy… what could possibly go wrong?
The short answer is — I don’t know. All I know is, yesterday evening, as we were sitting in a nice, tiny over-heated restaurant, my nose started running like the Trevi fountain (in warm temperatures). By the time we got back home (18 minutes on foot), I literally jumped on the handkerchief box. And proceeded to quickly empty it.
Fiancée: Tell me, how bad is it really?
Me: Like, bad.
Fiancée: Compared to, say, losing a leg in a war?
Fiancée: Compared to having a stroke and being handicapped for life?
Me: I wouldn’t mind.
Fiancée: Compared to having the cat treat you like you’re a mouse that’s been nagging him all day?
Me: OK, no, that’s worse.
There are limits to my victimhood, it appears.