dear lungs:
I’d start this letter with a “How are you?” but I KNOW HOW YOU ARE.
Obviously you’ve had a little trouble keeping your affairs in order, since I’ve had pneumonia three times in a year and even now, I feel as though woodland creatures — SOGGY, JELLO-COVERED WOODLAND CREATURES WITH VELCRO SUITS — have taken up residence in your recesses.
I have two inhalers now. TWO.
I wear scarves everywhere to keep you warm. SCARVES. (Okay, I DO love pashminas… but FEEL GUILTY ANYWAY.)
I take cold medicine to try and dry you up, but the only thing dry about me is the skin on my legs. I BLAME YOU BECAUSE YOU’VE CLEARLY MONOPOLIZED ALL THE MOISTURE IN MY SYSTEM.
I take cough medicine because SOMEONE HAS TO DRUG THE LUNG SQUIRRELS SO THEY CEASE THEIR NUT GATHERING FOR TEN MINUTES.
I’m tired of having a backache from hacking.
I’m tired of puffy eyes from being sleep-deprived.
I’m tired of feeling winded by the act of pushing down the top of my French press.
I don’t think you like antibiotics, because you ignore them like the veggies on the side of a plate of hot wings.
I don’t think you like rainy weather, because you make me feel like I’m breathing through a sponge.
I don’t think you like me to walk around, because you make my body feel as though I’ve been doing yoga on Lego.
So what do you want?
You can tell me.
Do you want me to swallow my new blow dryer?
Do you want me to inhale some mothballs?
Do you want me to move to California? OH, OKAY. ON IT. THAT’S COOL. WE AGREE.
Love,
Meg
