Bronchitis, as defined by the esteemed Mayo Brothers, is a condition that occurs when the inner walls that line the main air passageways of your lungs (bronchial tubes) become inflamed. For whatever reason, 18 years of good health was thrown out the window my freshman year of college in the dorms, when I developed my first case of bronchitis. For a girl who never missed a day of school (hey, it allowed us to skip finals and who doesn't love that?), it was shocking to find myself gulping generic robitussin like an alcoholic at happy hour. Let me count the ways I *hate* that cherry flavor. Hate it. I would have thrown up if my throat wasn't already so damn raw. As it was, I finally ponied up the extra cash for the gelcaps and found heaven in blister packs. The next year, same thing; I moved out of the dorms, and it followed me. I noticed a pattern that I was loathe to admit--chronic bronchitis may have settled in for my long, long, life. It seems that I've been blessed with genetically inferior lungs, as well as knees, eyes, teeth, eyebrows, eyelashes, and my lack of melanin. I'm sure that if I lived back in the day, I would have been a very pretty, delicate convalescent dying delicately and piteously of consumption on the fainting couch...but I would've looked damn good doing it, missing eyebrows aside. Pale? check. Delicate? check. Incapable of doing anything but cough into my handkerchief and apologize profusely? check.

As it is, I'm stuck in the 21st century with the returning nemesis of *myself*, which as we all know is one's own worst enemy. Nobody else can harm you as well as you can. So when I get sick and the tickle begins at the back of my throat, do I sit at home, wear lots of warm things on my chest and get rest and liquids?

HELL NO.

I'm the idiot who continues with her rock-n-roll lifestyle, staying up all hours and frequenting places full of smoke to piss off her bronchials. (Yeah, house party, I'm looking at you. You *betrayed* me--I thought you'd be a smoke-free zone, but obviously I was wrong) Bronchials are very pissy bitches, actually. They hold a grudge FOREVER. I'd like to say this wouldn't be happening if it weren't 70 degrees outside in the middle of October and I had to enjoy every last minute of the sun before it disappears for 6 months, but I have a feeling I'd be called a liar, liar, pants on fire. The cold would hurt me just as much as this Indian Summer.

I am horrible about taking care of myself. If my momma didn't still nag about eating right and exercising and generally taking my vitamins, I'm sure I'd be falling apart even faster. Which brings us back to the bronchitis, which is now taking over my entire life instead of a rather small corner. Every morning for the past week or so, I wake up and promptly start fighting for breath. It's this sickening feeling of not being able to get any breath *in* to cough *out* to help me breathe at all. I pity all your asthmatics, I really do. I have an inkling what you go thru, and I don't envy you at all. And the worst part for me is that laughter is the #1 trigger of my coughing. I transition quickly from a chuckle/giggle/laugh to my impression of the seal colony at Fisherman's Wharf. It's not remotely funny, which hasn't stopped some people from mocking me. (Imitation is *not always* the sincerest form of flattery, lemme tell you.) The only benefit that I've seen from this is that I have the raspy sexy-voice that works wonders. Last time this happened, Georgette and I called all sorts of people and left crazy messages for 'em with blocked caller-ID. (We're delinquent hooligans, I tell you) But that's it. I've become the annoying cougher at the movies, on the bus, at church. I'm the person you hear attempting to cough up not one but both lungs with shuddering breaths and shame radiating off her.

I hate her too.