When I’m sick, even when it’s just a cold, I’m very weary of anything I put in my body. Everything that hasn’t been boiled, or dipped in boiling water, seems suspect.
Water from the fridge that I keep in a juice pitcher from the dollar store I bought to replace my Britta because, let’s be honest, I never change that filter anyway? Teeming with pathogens.
The artificially cooled and perpetually recirculated air coming in through the AC-unit in my noisy, polluted Brooklyn Avenue-facing window? Absolutely full of air-borne pathogens. Supercharged by the AC.
The little nick on my heel where I picked the scab off a blister from an uncomfortable pair of flats? Obviously something got in there and now I’m septic.
So while I wait for the water in my nettie pot to cool to a point where I can pour it through my nose and flush out the deadly spores clinging to my nasal membrane, I’m picturing a germ party throwing one hell of a rager somewhere right between my cheek bones.