The only cold that coats
There’s an old family saying that is appropriate for the occasion: “He who temps fate with recollections of good fortune hands fate a shovel, and grants it the vigor to dig a big hole.”**
It was just yesterday that Cheryl had remarked that I had been in good spirits since getting back on the bike. Thanks to Cheryl’s hasty proclamations I woke up this morning with a raging case of post-nasal drip, with the customary sore throat. Around 2:30 Cheryl came home and suggested that I looked awful, and ought to take a nap. I would have too, if it hadn’t been 2:30 in the afternoon. The last thing I’ll want at bedtime is that fresh feeling that comes after a long nap. So I’m still up, struggling to keep my eyes open, waiting desperately for bedtime to draw near.
**Author’s note: there is no such family saying. It doesn’t even add much to the entry… so I have no idea why I put it there. Heck, if I were going to erode the trust of my readers I should have at least told a decent lie… maybe something good for a laugh or two.