Every time we finish a cycle of illness in our house (you know…the thing where Kyle gets sick and then I get sick and then we’re both sneezing buckets of snot, hacking up our lungs, stock-piling mountains of used tissue, and reaching desperately for another dose of Day-Quil), I have this ritual. It’s a little like an exorcism, but more cheerful.
The Howard Hughes in me imagines little cold-germies infesting our apartment. I freak out. And then I do this.
I scrub every conceivable surface with anti-bacterial wipes.
I replace our toothbrushes.
And our contact lens cases.
And our sheets and pillowcases.
I light a candle. And I thank God that head-colds don’t last forever.