I'm official. I think. I registered with the American Marriage Ministries meaning I sent them my e-mail address, date-of-birth and zip code and they zipped back with this oh-so-cool-and-official-looking certificate verifying that I am now legally entitled to marry people. (And, I'm assuming, to perform exorcisms, but I'll charge extra for that.)
Maybe I can use my new-found ministry powers to heal myself. For the first time in probably seven years, I'm sick. Had a scratchy throat on Wednesday and came down with a full-fledged summer cold on Thursday that has dug its heels in and won't let go. I've skipped three workouts this week and only ran 10 of my 17 scheduled miles yesterday. I walked three miles and appreciate all my runner friends checking in on me as they passed. ("You're walking, are you okay?" "Do you feel alright?" "There's an unusual sight. Are you okay?")
I've put off seeing a doctor because I keep thinking I'm getting better and then I keep back sliding. I'll give it another two days and then bite the bullet if it's still with me. As it stands, I've been in a NyQuil haze for the past five days and have little memory of where I've been or what I've said. As one friend put it, the original green bottle of death states, "May cause drowsiness" but should really read, "Don't make any f'ing plans."
I'm off to cough up phlegm, 'cause that's how I roll.