Excuse Me for a Moment, Folks

Mom warned me about waiting too long to start typing.

"Do it as soon as you can, before you feel any worse," she said. "It'll be easier on you."

I mumbled something in reply and continued plowing through my PSAT practice. My throat ached just a bit, my nose was beginning to stuff up, and I had a low- grade fever that disappeared right about when I reached the critical reading section. I didn't see any harm in finishing the sample test, or in grading it, or in the minimeltdown that ensued when my grade was B-movie- style-scream-inducingly low.

Fast forward three and a half hours from Mom's advice. I have been staring at our clunky old monitor for the past half-an-hour, shaking the mouse every five minutes or so to ensure - perhaps pointlessly - that the blank page in Microsoft Word that would eventually be filled with this column wasn't replaced by a fish- bowl screensaver. I don't have a temperature, but I feel like I'm laying on a bed of hot coals in the middle of the desert at high noon while wearing several lay- ers of ski clothing. I cannot gulp, cough, talk, hum, or inhale too deeply without my throat complaining. My nose is now decidedly runny, and some of the resulting snot seems to have seeped into my brain, thoroughly gumming it up - especially the portions needed to write a decent column.

Yessiree, I am under the weather. (I have never fully comprehended the meaning of this term, as weather tends to take place in the strato- sphere, which is above pretty much everyone.)

Excuse me for a moment, folks, I've got to go blow my nose.

(hellip;..)

All right, I'm back. Where was I?

Ah, yes. Under the weath- er.

But I should probably move on to a more interest- ing topic, because I'm pretty sure you don't want to hear any more about the workings of my mucus glands.

Gosh, what else have I done this week? Well, I guess I turned 16. Funny - I really don't feel sixteen at all. I always expected that sixteen would mean a lot of things that it doesn't: a driver's license (I've never even touched a steering wheel), at least one book in print (I do have one novella awaiting a final edit, but that's not going to hap- pen until my homework load takes a serious nosedive), a steady job (I'm not sure this columnist thing counts), and both a college and a career in mind. (Well, I do meet this last criterion, but suf- fice it to say that unless my PSAT-taking skills improve dramatically within the next seven days, I'm going to need to reconsider.)

Hmm. What else did I do?

I made my own necklace for the Homecoming dance. The result was spectacular - two strands of gently spar- kling gray-black metal beads punctuated with clusters of patinaed purple crystal tear- drops. I was very proud of myself until I realized that I had neglected to save any of the teardrops for use in matching earrings. Grr!

Ah well. Life goes on.

Now if you'll excuse me a moment, I feel a sneeze coming on.