We all know what phlegm is. And up until today, I've mistakenly been referring to it as flem. Sometimes it makes home in the nasal cavity, turning a putrid green, sure to scare any faint-at-heart away. At other times, this substance moves in to the lungs. He has a party, causing any breath taken to be accompanied by a clatter and rattle. Phlegm has many aliases--sputum, snot, boogies, loogies. All of which I'd prefer to never experience...but as the story goes, life is not fair.
My dear friend, Phlegm, chose to visit me on Friday. Before I knew it, he'd unpacked his bags in my lungs, and no matter how kindly or harshly I order him away, he stays. What those Expectorant boxes don't inform its patients of is one eentsy-weentsy detail. Women are not born-hockers. Sure, we may have impressed boys by how far we can spit. And some of us may even know how to zoom a spit wad to the front of a classroom (my hand is raised), but few of us delicate creatures can hock a loogie. I've spent all day following my husband's instruction, perfecting my guttural and most disgusting effort to rid my lungs of my tenant. My designated spit cup remains empty.
The training continues on...
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