The Rule of Three

Three is a number that just seems to permeate life. There was the story of the three bears. And then the three little pigs. Three strikes in baseball is the kiss of death. My father even had the rule of three: if someone offers to pay for something, decline 3 times and then gladly accept.

My current three experience is the onslaught of that cold I wrote about 10 days ago. I sensed two definite battles that I successfully won with my arsenal of Airborne. But I’m afraid to say battle number 3 is not going in my favor.

Here I sit on my last holiday until Memorial Day sniffling and sneezing. I didn’t feel like doing Quentin’s exercises this morning. I cancelled my “play date” with Deborah. I am bagging yoga. I have to be really sick to change my life this radically.

My husband, the Airborne evangelist, is urging me to continue to make myself a fizzy cocktail every few hours today with the thought that it might lessen the symptoms, lessen the duration of this garden-variety cold.

When I do get a cold, I always wonder where I picked it up. Is this the same germ I contracted 10 days ago as I sat next to the sniffling sneezer in the choir? Or was it the fact that at the Chinese restaurant last night I sat next to a door that kept bringing in cold air. Deborah says no to the latter. Just what is the gestation of a cold?

The good news is my wonderful husband is going to make a batch of Jewish penicillin for me later. His chicken soup is not terribly conventional. He puts things like broccoli and sweet potatoes in it. But there’s something about that soothing warm dill-flavored broth that works wonders on a cold.

My allegiance is going back to chicken soup! So much for Airborne.