In Which the Manda Speculates if Boiling Water and Leaves Can Cure the Common Cold

After many, many months of existential meltdown, it feels pretty good for me to be able to say that, in general, I like my job. I get paid to be funny and talk about books and movies and good writing, and when the students are into it, that doesn't suck. Doesn't mean this is where I want to be forever, but with soaring unemployment and dipping real estate prices, where I am is just fine for now.

But here's what does suck about teaching high school: every year, about two weeks in, I get a nasty little cold that doesn't go away until February.

I'm not going to be the asshat who blames the kids for this. That's not what I'm saying. What I am saying is that if you spend a lot of your time in a relatively confined space with a lot of people, you're going to have some germs passing around. I'd likely have the same complaint if I worked for an airline. The thing is, if I worked for an airline, I wouldn't have three months for my immune system to get used to something else before going back to the confined space.

So it's nobody's fault. It's just the job, and if that's my worst complaint right now, I'm okay with it.

Still, here I am with a throat that feels like I've been eating sandpaper for three days. And I'm pretty sure at any moment I'm going to cough up an internal organ. It's not a bad enough sick for me to feel justified in calling in sick and spending a day or two in bed, it's just bad enough to make me whiny and generally irritating to any poor schmuck who happens to cross my path and say "How are you doing?" in passing.

It's just bad enough to make people say, "Wow, Manda, you don't look so good," after I spent a lot of time applying makeup to try to look like I'm perfectly fine to be out in public.

It's just bad enough to keep me from kickboxing tonight. That's the worst part.

So instead of kicking a heavy bag so hard it tips over and hits NayNay in the face-- true story-- I sit at home and watch reruns of "How I Met Your Mother" on TiVo and make a pot of tea.

Last week I said there are few things a good pot of tea won't fix, and one of my friends said I sounded like her (ex) mother-in-law. I've heard a lot of stories about this mother-in-law and have concluded that this comparison might have been more flattering if my friend had compared me to Satan hisownself. But maybe things are better between them now.

So I'm revising my statement. No, a pot of tea won't cure cancer. It probably won't even cure my cold. Tea won't make an insufferable mother-in-law more sufferable. It won't mend a broken heart. It won't solve a crisis. It won't magically enable me to kickbox tonight.

I understand the appeal, though. Making a pot of tea is a routine, and routine helps you feel a small measure of control when facing a crisis. It's something to DO at any rate. There's a social element to hot beverages which can also be therapeutic. There's a reason tea-making is a full on ceremony in some cultures.

And a hot beverage is soothing to a throat that has been scrubbed with sandpaper. These are all desirable outcomes.

I understand that this attitude toward tea is a stereotypically English affectation, but we have our own version of it down South. Except we fry stuff instead.

And I like tea. Right now I have a nice oolong going, and oolong is fun to say. Go ahead. Try it. Because I have a friend who owns a tea shop, I also know the difference between an oolong, a green tea, a black tea, and a white tea. I've also reached a point of snobbery about it that means I don't like to use bags or tap water in the preparation. It could mean I'm a dork. It could also mean I haven't embraced the chaos as much as I like to think I have.

So now I'm going to retire for the evening with my mug and a trashy novel. These are the things that will improve my state of mind and, I hope, body.

But if anyone were to want to bring me a plate of fried chicken, I probably wouldn't say no to that either.