To Cure a Cold

What possessed me to believe I could conquer a summer cold with sheer willpower and a few questionable remedies, I do not recall. Armed with optimism and a collection of bizarre treatments, I embarked on a journey in July that would leave me humbled, sicker, and far too familiar with the taste of gin.

It all started with a simple sneeze—innocent, right? Wrong. That sneeze was the beginning of my downfall. First, my well-meaning friend, Smilin’ Jim suggested I soak my feet in hot water and crawl into bed.

Just as I was settling into a warm foot stew, another friend, Elizabeth Dress, burst in with the enthusiasm of a mad scientist, insisting a cold shower was the only cure. So naturally, I followed both suggestions because what could go wrong?

Answer: everything. The cold clung to me like a bad habit.

But I was not giving up yet. Then Hell Betty offered sage advice, “Feed a cold and starve a fever.” The problem? I had both.

So, in my wisdom, I decided to feed my cold as if I were a lumberjack preparing for winter. I ate with the ferocity of a competitive eater, so much so that the local diner shut down temporarily, citing “emotional distress.” Still, my cold persisted.

From there, things got a little out of hand. Someone—I do not even remember who at this point—suggested drinking a quart of warm saltwater. After testing this theory, I can confirm it is a great way to expel all you have ever eaten violently.

Meanwhile, Leggs, with a suspiciously gleeful smile, handed me a concoction of molasses, turpentine, and something called “aquafortis.” This delightful brew nearly led me to a life of petty theft and other odd larcenies, as it seemed to dissolve my moral compass but not my cold.

In my increasingly desperate state, I turned to gin—plain gin, gin with molasses, gin with onions (do not ask)—which only turned my breath into something akin to a decomposing vulture. People began avoiding me in the street. My cold got worse.

Then came the “sheet bath.” Have you ever wrapped yourself in a wet sheet and stood outside at midnight in winter? No? Well, do not. It turns out that nearly freezing to death is not a cure for the common cold—who knew?

As a final act of desperation, I retreated to the front porch, hoping fresh air would do the trick, and where I planned a mustard plaster treatment, only to discover my K-9 companions ate it. That should have been my sign to call it quits, but no, I pressed on.

After a week of steam baths, questionable herbal teas, and a terrifying amount of gin, I was no closer to recovery. My last-ditch effort? Ol’ Nine-toe-Joe, who swore by whiskey— advised a quart a day, he said. Of course, each had their own method, so I did the logical thing and combined their ideas: I drank a half-gallon a day. Surprisingly, I did not get better, and I wished not to.

Now, I am sharing this tale of medicinal misadventures not to recommend any of these treatments—seriously, do not do them—but to caution anyone foolish enough to think they can outwit a cold. If nothing else, I hope you have learned that sometimes the only cure is to wait it out or drink just enough whiskey to care no more.