Snotty Starts to the Day

Sitting up in bed, back against the wall, snotty and overwhelmed, caught between laughing at myself, crying and not being able to breathe, I finally let loose.

"I FEEL FUCKING RIDICULOUS!!"

She takes this placidly, allows it to roll out the open window and fall away into 5 a.m., lost admist the street cleaners and garbage pickup, the morning rush and the Monday making its presence known at least an hour too early.

"You're so shouty," she says, cute lilt letting me know she thinks this is okay, and will not hold the previous exhortation against me. I breathe, and smile.

"You would be, too, if you knew how much mucous was about to end up in your hair."

I laugh, half-heartedly, wanting to feel funny, feel fine, feel fucking anything else except miserable, and reach around her for a tissue, evacuating my nostrils of more sludge than should be possible.

"You're allowed to feel ridiculous -- I'm your people." She smiles as she says this, and it's over. I still feel like ass, and would continue to worsen as the day progressed. (Note to self: Next time you know the cold is coming, stay home.) And yet, as we wind down the wackness, wrapped up in each other, discussing things that make more sense than they should, finally beginning to ready for work, I can control my breathing.

It's going to be okay. For real for real. Because this is good. This is very good. And it scares me. It scares us. But that's okay, too. Promise.

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