One of my married friends asked me to hold their 3 month old baby while they went to look for their two toddler sons. Tiny, chubby, cute little bundle of joy and warmth. His little face was still ruddy from being fussy and crying earlier. His parents commented that they were just getting over the cold and the baby was doing much better. And in my arms, he calmed down and laughed as I played peek a boo and made funny faces and noises to get him to laugh and smile, the crowd chuckling along at my efforts, enjoying the delighful sounds of the baby laughing.
And when I put my face up to his, that's when the tiny assassin struck! He sneezed at me! A tiny Achoo! Awww, went the crowd and I, taken in by the cuteness of the act and enjoying the moment. I blame the alcohol. Had I been sober, I would've realized the danger that I had been exposed to and perhaps I would've avoided the situation in the first place.
It wasn't until the next evening when I realized that I was the victim of an assassination attempt. It started with a runny nose; then congestion; then my nose became confused as to whether it was runny or congested. Sometimes, one nostril would run while the other was clogged up; and then the nostrils would alternate which one was runny and which was clogged up, depending on the position I turned my head, in my feeble attempts to breathe. The coughing the next morning was the damning evidence that proved beyond a reasonable doubt what I had feared: I had gotten a cold!
For two years I had managed to survive without catching a cold. And here I am, starting the new year, struck down by the maddening disease! And there was only one person who exposed me to this vile illness. That baby! That tiny assassin! With one little sneeze, he has brought me to my deathbed. Instead of out and about enjoying my days off from work, I am locked up in my home, languishing in exile, longing for the days when I could talk without hacking up a lung or two. I have coughed so much that my throat is sore and one of my ears feels clogged up.
Going to the store to buy remedies was a harsh reminder of my affliction. I have been reduced to using the self-checkout aisle, my face covered by my hoodie, keeping my distance from other human beings, like a leper forced into quarantine to avoid spreading the disease to others. Bagging my own groceries--the horror! the horror!
But, what does not kill you makes you stronger. And I am not dead yet! The only thing that has comforted me in my suffering is the thought of revenge when I fully recover. No, I do not blame the baby. He's a baby; he doesn't know how to wash his tiny hands or cover his mouth when he sneezes. He doesn't know how to keep his distance from the filthy, germ laden public. Instead, I blame the parents for transporting and deploying that tiny, portable incubator of germ warfare, unleashing him on an unsuspecting public!
Clearly, those parents had attempted to murder my social life, condemning me to spend several days in celibacy and solitary confinement, cut off from adult conversations and interactions, deprived of alcohol and the joy of staying out late with other people--much in the same way having children changes a couple's lifestyle.
I cannot wait to recover. And the next time I encounter my married friends and their kids, I'm going to feed their kids so much candy and sweets that they'll be too wired up to go to bed and keep their parents from getting any sleep or having any marital relations! Vengeance! Vengeance will be mine! I can't wait for the tiny assassin to start teething and keep mommy and daddy from ever sleeping again!
