Right now, I wish I could do the man cough. You know what I’m talking about… that deep-throated hacking cough that almost all men seem to inherently know how to do. The kind of open-mouthed, adam’s apple-bobbing rumble from within that always seems to bring up a loogie from the depths of the nose and throat area (and which some men can then, with accuracy, spit out).
Oh yeah… I want to be able to perform the man cough and hock a big one right out the back door of my work trailer and into the Chesapeake Bay.
But I just can’t seem to figure out how to do it. (And I’ve tried… Oh man, how I’ve tried!)
A co-worker just came by to pick up her business cards, and told me that she can perform this throaty feat, but only because she had a brother growing up and he showed her how. Damn Y chromosome.
I’ve been suffering from post nasal drip all week, which is basically to say that I feel like crap — can’t breathe, so I can’t sleep, and lose my voice if I try to talk for longer than 10 minutes at a time — but I am not actually sick.
I don’t have a cold (bacteria) or the flu (virus). So really, aside from pumping myself up on decongestants — which may or may not aggrevate my already dry-heat-tortured mucus membranes, spiderwebbed throughout my sinuses which are just begging for any reason to act like teenagers in a mosh pit called MY BRAIN — there’s not really much I can do.
I’m subsisting on juice (sugar) and crackers (carbs and salt — SCORE!), which is basically to say that I’m retaining water like the beached whale that I was for the past two days, with my butt permanently adhered to the La-Z-Boy rocker at my parents’ house.
Last night, I got up and walked the approximate 20 steps into the kitchen to refill my cranberry juice. I returned to the living room and stood there, panting like a dog. My mom, laughing, asked me, “What did you do, run up the stairs?”
“No, Mom. I didn’t run up the stairs, I took 40 steps and lifted a container of juice.”
What I didn’t say: “And I can’t do the man cough because you didn’t produce a brother for me, who would inevitably teach me this valuable skill. And because I can’t man cough, I can’t dislodge the loogie that is hanging down from the back of my blocked nasal passages and swinging against my tonsils, hampering my ability to take a full breath from either nose or mouth, and often inducing a fit of pathetic girl coughing that does nothing whatsoever to alleviate the problem.”
Had I said that last bit out loud, I’m sure the response would’ve been something along the lines of, “Honey, you need to take that up with your Father. He is the keeper of the Y chromosome!”
And while blaming my parents for not producing a brother to teach me how to man cough at a young, impressionable age might win me a scoop of sherbet and some sympathy from my Mom, it sure as heck wasn’t going to get me anywhere with Dad… except maybe tossed out of that La-Z-Boy chair.