In my defense, I had already valiantly marshalled through five whole days of a devastatingly brutal head cold.
I had stoically stood up to my constantly running nose, my unbearably itchy eyes, and my life-changing, 24-hour-a-day, stuffiness and pressure gradient headache. I felt that I had bravely accepted my fate as manfully as I could.
I had toughed it out, enduring the barely endurable, but could endure no more.
Every man has his limits, his breaking point, and by Friday I’d reached the very zenith of my suffering. I had climbed my mountain of misery and stood on the pinnacle of my pain.
I had to do something.
I could stand it no more.
So I waited until Miss Carol went up to bed. And then I waited until I heard her snoring quietly. And then I waited a little bit longer, just to be sure.
And then I crept up the stairs to our bedroom, stripped down and slid sniffling and mucousy into our bed next to her. I laid awake a long time thinking about what I was thinking about doing.
And then I leaned over and gave the gently sleeping Miss Carol a long, slobbery, cold-virus-transferring, soul kiss.
I sure hope there are air-conditioned seats in hell.