It’s an odd thing, but I rarely get sick. Common cold? Not over here it’s not! (Not that I don’t plan on a “sick day” in, oh, let’s say February, just to keep management from taking me for granted – but that’s between you and me.)
And yet in other ways I’m quite delicate. Like a little flower. A little pastry-eating, iPod-wearing, margarita-craving flower…
I bit down on a piece of hard, oddly shaped but delightful chocolate earlier in the week (from Switzerland, so help me!) and then spent the next three days feeling sorry that I had. Not over any silly concern about pant sizes or girth-control, mind you, but because it seems I have the gums and palate of a much frailer woman. You know someone like me, don’t you? One of those people whose mouth is torn apart by Cap’n Crunch or pizza crusts? Throughout the last few days, of course, I have touched it with the tip of my tongue, reminding myself of it...
Does it still hurt?
What about now?
And so on.
But the pain caused by the crispy, crunchy goodness of a pizza crust is no match to the pain I’m in for once a good wind has gotten a hold of me. Fall in Minnesota is a lovely place for wind, and the same gusts that rip the leaves off the trees and send small children stumbling into fences also screams through my ears – the same ears that pop in elevators and make me someone you don’t want to sit next to as we descend into LAX, an airport with a particularly steep drop before landing.
Like I said. I’m a flower.
I say that, knowing full well that it’s not true. Actually, outside of the roof of my mouth and my ears, I’m a sturdy little thing with good teeth and a low center of gravity (“Pearl wobbles but she don’t fall down”, as the old commercial said).
Nevertheless, indoors, on a cold, windy day like today is what my ancestors wished for me, in that Czech/Norwegian/Dane/Scot/Irish/Swiss way they had; and once I finish help Erin move into The Little House in the ‘Hood, that’s where I’m headed.
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