a tale of two cold sores

Recently I took my daughter to Wendy’s.  They had a new frosty, triple berry, something that she had to have.  Who doesn’t love a frosty? So, we got the Frosties, (chocolate for me, berry for her. )  I asked her if I could taste hers. I was surprised by her answer. Wait for it, hard NO.  Well yes, I could have a taste, but no I couldn’t use her spoon. Cool, cool because in true socio fashion, I didn’t want to use her spoon.  I had my own fresh clean spoon and that’s the way my sweet little socio soul preferred it. I paused for a moment and thought, “Hmm, what’s going on here?”  Penelope, remember Penelope?   “Ah I do and let’s not forget the spawn of Penelope.” It’s a cautionary tale. A tale of two cold sores.

Penelope was my first, you never forget your first, right? My first cold sore.  Penelope began as a tingling on the left side of my upper lip before she grew into a mountain with her own zip code. I wasn’t expecting her, and I missed all the signs that she was about to take up a large space on my lip and overstay her welcome. (And then leave me with a little something to remember her by!) Let me go on.

I don’t mind sharing food, but my inner socio does not like sharing MY food. What does that mean you ask? While I can share food with people, it is on my terms. Don’t put your hands on my plate!  Don’t grab my sandwich and take a bite! Don’t put your fork that was just in your mouth in my food.  If you want to taste my food, ask and I’ll cut you a piece. I have very specific food sharing rules.  But you know sometimes peer pressure makes you do bad things.

The birth of Penelope started with some peer pressure.  I think a lot of unexpected births might start with peer pressure, lol.  But let’s stay on topic, this is about not sharing food.  Many years ago, I was out with a group of people.  Dinner, drinks and then a show. Sounds like a good night, and it was except for the peer pressure. Someone got a fun drink. As a matter of fact, everyone got a fun drink.  It was a place with good food, fun drinks and a show. 

Then the tastings began. It was like an orgy of food; you taste mine and I taste yours.  No food monogamy here. Pretty soon there were forks everywhere and there was a whole lot of sharing going on. My socio soul was trying to be, let’s say, a little less socio, a little more social.  I tried to be like everyone else, happy, laughing, sharing, eating, not worried about where all the germy little germs on the flying forks had been. Big mistake!

Suddenly there was a sparkly drink.  It was being passed around like a magical chalice in church, each person sipping, squealing in delight and then passing it to the next unsuspecting victim.  Soon it was my turn, and all eyes were on me.  I tried to decline, with a polite, no thanks, I don’t drink. Mob mentality turned on me, come on try it, just one little sip, you’ll like it, take a sip, it’s so good!  Not wanting to be the party pooper, I took a little sip while my inner socio crooned softly, “you’ll be sorry…” I remember thinking what’s the big deal, it’s just a little sip.  The sparkly boozy liquid trickled down my throat, all was fine in my world. It would be fine. I’m fine, it’s fine, this is fine.

Two days later, still fine. Tingly lip, still fine. Bump on lip, still fine, maybe? I had never had a cold sore in my life; I did not know what demon volcano was about to erupt on my face.  Growing, spreading, burning, leaking, OMG, what the hell was this?  What had I done to deserve this? I swear it had a face! It was taking on a life of its own, it needed a name. Spawn? Devil Mountain? It needed to be a little softer, because clearly it was going to stay a while.  We settled on Penelope.

My kids started saying good morning to Penelope and asking Penelope how she was. Penelope was not talking. (She might have been scared since I was planning her demise.) Meds, band aids, alcohol, more meds, Penelope wanted to stay. I did everything I could to make her go, but she did not go quickly. Two weeks later, maybe three, Penelope finally departed. Maybe the kids were sad to see her go, it had become our little family joke. I was not sad.  Good riddance. Never again, never ever, ever, wait… what’s that tingle on my lip?

Remember this is a tale of two cold sores.  Penelope had a little demon baby and left it on my doorstep, lip-step? Is that a thing?  Fortunately, this time I had learned two things from my cautionary tale:

1) Tingling lip means a cold sore. Meds at the first tingle, means no Penelope II. 2) NEVER share MY food.

Good rules to live by. You’re welcome.