Yesterday, I found myself needing to take cough mixture*.

I poured myself a little dose in a medicinal shot glass and stared it down.

There was a thick, pink challenge in front of me and I found myself yearning for a line of salt and a congratulatory lemon wedge to help me knock it back.

The thought struck me that I was needing to psych myself up more for a shot of strawberry-flavoured cough suppressant that was going to improve my health than I ever needed to psych myself up for a shot of tequila that tasted like methylated sin and would probably/definitely make me clog a sink with my vomit.

Which is weird.

Because every damn morning I eat three cubes of diced, frozen kale that I’ve heated up in the microwave. I can’t say I enjoy it, but I do it to get dat veggie count up. I start my mornings off with a mouthful of sloppy gunk that could very well have been scraped from the bottom of a lawn mower after particularly damp day because I’ve been told it’s good for my body. And what’s good for my body is good for my rig.

And this demonstrates that I am capable of enduring discomfort for a perceived positive outcome.

For example, I am happy to endure the brief discomfort of having straight tequila in my mouth for the positive outcome of being a sloshy mess. Sure, I may put my hair up in a precautionary bun in case of a cheeky vom, but this move is less about stalling than it is for ensuring I don’t get carrot chunks in my ponytail. If I were sporting a pixie cut or wearing a swimming cap to da club (something to think about, actually, when you consider how knotted my hair gets on the d-floor) I wouldn’t hesitate. And if said shot was free, the decision to down it is practically immediate.

The idea of getting smashed was the proverbial spoonful of sugar to help the tequila go down.

But it seems “not coughing up globs of phlegm in the middle of the night” wasn’t an outcome I felt was worth enduring a quick taste of cough mixture.

If it’s not going to get me sloshy or skinny, it’s hard for me to swallow, apparently.

I don’t know what this says about my level of maturity and my apparent enthusiasm for self-destruction, but I hardly think it could be considered a positive sign.

* The other morning I was coughing so hard in my sleep that I woke myself up and vomited. But unfortunately I didn’t hurl up enough to warrant a super luxe double banger breakfast – it was just enough to require a teeth cleaning. I wouldn’t have called it a high point of my week.

** Since writing this, I’m wondering if the answer to my problem isn’t simply creating a tequila shot equivalent for cough mixture. 

Considering the medicine is strawberry-flavoured, I could rack up a line of desiccated coconut and have a wedge from a scone waiting for me. Because if being healthy isn’t reward enough to tempt me into taking my medicine, baked goods might just do the trick.