Harold also knew about flu shots. The government was always encouraging people to get them, but it seemed like most people didn’t bother with it. Like the common cold, the flu was inconvenient and uncomfortable, but one’s body was perfectly capable of handling the virus itself within a few days. No big deal.
So Harold knew what to expect from a cold. A little sneezing, a tight throat, and a stuffed-up nose that made you talk funny. If he ever came down with something, he’d be mentally prepared for it.
And then Harold got a cold.
On the third day of his cold, Harold was wrapped up in a blanket and lying on the couch in the living room. The Price is Right was playing on the TV and there was a melting popsicle sitting in a cup on the coffee table. Harold stared blankly ahead, his head throbbing, his throat burning, his sinuses pinching, his whole existence a haze. He was starving but didn’t want to eat anything. This is bad, Harold thought to himself. This is really, really bad.
Harold feebly reached for his cell phone. He called the nearby pharmacy.
“Do you deliver?” Harold rasped.
“Deliver? Deliver what?” the pharmacist asked.
“I need some cold medicine,” replied Harold.
It was silent for a few seconds. “Like, for a runny nose?” the pharmacist asked.
“Yeah, and for all the other cold symptoms too,” said Harold.
"Those are just over-the-counter drugs,” the pharmacist explained. “You can just come in and pick them up.”
Harold looked down at his sweat pants and the dozens of crumpled-up tissues scattered around him. He wasn’t going anywhere.
“Okay, thanks.” Harold hung up the phone.
Now that Harold had a cold, the big work deadline he had been stressing about a few days earlier seemed so trivial and unimportant. In fact, everything seemed trivial and unimportant now. But apparently, the rest of the world didn’t share his view. Harold’s boss was calling him.
“Hey Harold!” she greeted him, perky as always. “I just wanted to see if you found someone to take care of the Penderson account while you’re out sick.”
“Yeah, I talked to Cindy about it yesterday,” Harold told her.
“Oh perfect! Hey, how are you feeling, by the way?” the boss asked.
“I have a cold,” Harold said.
“Oh hey, me too!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it the worst?”
Harold’s mouth gaped open. “How are you working right now?!” he wanted to scream. “How are you even living through it?” Instead, he just quietly replied, “Yeah, it’s pretty bad.”
“Well, get well soon!” she finished and hung up.
Harold stumbled to the bathroom. He threw up half a popsicle. He staggered back to the living room and collapsed on the couch. Judge Judy was starting.
Harold was positively flabbergasted. His whole body felt so weak. There was no way it could somehow recover from being so defeated. How could this possibly happen to people on a regular basis? How are we not dying in droves? he wondered. How is it that people go through this and then just move on with life as though nothing dramatic and life-threatening has occurred? How is this agony not shouted from the rooftops? WHY DON’T PEOPLE COMPLAIN MORE ABOUT THIS?!
And then Harold crumpled into a heap of tears and frustration.
The End.
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This is pretty much how I’ve been feeling for the past few months. Except that pregnancy is a whole heck of a lot worse than a stupid cold.
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