Opinion: Smug: Just what the doctor ordered

If I were a wanted felon, the police would urge the public: “Consider him dangerous. Do not attempt to apprehend!” Needless to say, I approach this column in a foul mood.

Truth be told, the symptoms I have could indicate a sinus infection rather than a head cold. Not having gone to medical school, I’m not much into malady diagnoses.

Trying to decide if it’s a head cold or sinus infection would be like wondering if a broken leg came from being hit by a car or by landing on the street after being tossed in the air by a car.

Conventional wisdom suggests that if you don’t medicate a cold/sinus infection it will last for two weeks; take medicine, and it lasts 14 days. Whichever way you look at it, as I write this, I’m into Day 7. The good news is that by the time this is being read, I will have rejoined the living.

Believe me, only my self-imposed deadline would have me in an upright position sitting at my computer.

At the moment, me head feels like a soccer ball following a game between two teams of really good players, all of whom kick the ball very hard and often.

Since all of my symptoms have congregated in my head, it has no interest in remaining where a head is supposed to be. It’s like I have a bucket full of cement tied around my neck, forcing my head down so my chin rests on my collarbone. Think about it: That’s a heavy head.

It’s easy to check my heart rate. I can simply look at my watch and count the heartbeats throbbing in my head. Come to think about it, the throbs are encouraging; they suggest I may still be alive.

Looking at myself in the mirror is an ominous experience. My reflection causes me to wonder if the autopsy results have come in.

Along with a soccer ball head, I have sandpaper eyes and a nose that feels like it belongs to Bozo the Clown, if his red nose weighed 20 pounds.

My mouth is as dry as cotton. I kid you not; my mouth is so dry that Eli Whitney’s cotton gin would be hard-pressed to handle all of the cotton.

Rest easy, I have no intention of singing, but if I were to break into song, at best, I would be doing a really poor imitation of gravelly voiced singer Kenny Rogers. At worst, I would sound like a squeaky wheel in drastic need of grease.

More than one well-intentioned person has commented on how unfortunate it is to be down with a cold this time of year. I know they are trying to be sympathetic, but trust me on this, any time is a lousy time to have whatever it is that I have.

It may be that every cloud does have a silver lining. As it happens, a silver lining showed itself just the other day. It was Day 2 of my malady, and I was standing in a line hoping to avoid contact with anyone when a cell phone rang. Actually, it wasn’t a ring; it sounded like the hallelujah chorus from Handel’s “Messiah,” which I love when sung by a good choir at Christmas.

It seemed the impromptu concert would never end. I guess the owner wanted to enjoy the whole piece of music before answering. Then, he made no effort to keep his conversation confidential. He spoke for quite a while in a voice loud enough for all of us to have no choice but to eavesdrop on his half of the dialogue.

Normally, this scenario would irk me to the max. Not this time. I felt too yucky to give the offensive cell phone yapper the time of day. I saved myself the pent-up anger of stifling an urge to yell out, “Turn off that phone, you inconsiderate clod!”

Instead of seething inside, I felt strangely smug and satisfied with myself. I quietly ignored the inconsiderate clod.

Feeling smug can be good medicine.

Joe McAdoo is former chairman of the communication department at Drury University.[[In-content Ad]]