Enthusiasm limited

Oh yeah, I've got a blog. I sometimes forget this, especially after long breaks away. In this case, I've been mentally away for about two weeks now, addressing a wicked chest cold. And I do mean wicked. Until yesterday, my days consisted almost exclusively of tissue, soup, podcasts, orange juice, staring into space, and blankets. 

In an effort to avoid the doctor, I recently visited the pharmacist. This is an event for a do-it-yourself kind of healthcare-taker such as myself. (Tell me, what American is not?) I was wary of asking for help but sick enough that I felt I must in order to avoid a worse fate. So, clutching my credit card, I crudely described my symptoms (polite phlegm-related vocabulary comes late in the game) to the nice lady in the professional white coat. 

My skepticism was really not allayed by her opening suggestion of a suppository for my sore throat. Even in my stupor I made sure to decline that one. I folded on the nasal spray, however; her enthusiasm was just too much (but not unwarranted, I later learned). As she made a stack of boxes just for me, I felt a bit like I had my own personal, homeopathically-aware shopper. This would have been fun if it weren't expensive and, well, just not fun. Spending nearly $50 at the pharmacy may fill your cabinet with drugs, but it doesn't get you any sympathy. Enthusiasm strictly limited to pharmaceutical products. (But I got better anyway.)