There oughta be a law against summer colds. I mean it. Call Congress, start a petition — because being sick in the summer is a crime against nature, decency, and all things good and grilled.

In the winter, getting sick at least makes sense. You’re already bundled up, sipping soup, binge-watching whatever Netflix insists is trending. But in July? When everyone else is cannonballing into pools, flipping burgers, and living their best SPF-slicked lives? Meanwhile, I’m horizontal on the couch, battling congestion with nothing but stale crackers and a tissue box for emotional support.

Soup? Not a chance. It’s a hundred degrees outside. Just thinking about chicken noodle makes me sweat harder. So instead, I’m surviving on a sad little buffet of saltines, electrolytes, and sheer willpower.

The worst part? When you’re an adult with a summer cold, the world doesn’t stop to feel bad for you. There’s no snow day, no magical pause button. Deadlines still loom, groceries still need fetching, and the animals still expect their royal escort to the backyard — except now their handler is in pajamas and one slipper, muttering curses at the sunshine.

And, of course, my brain has officially stopped braining. Not ideal timing, considering this month I’m supposed to be celebrating something kind of major: the release of my 45th novel with Harlequin (can I get a little “woohoo” from the back row?). That’s forty-five love stories, suspense thrillers, and steamy plot twists — and here I am, stuffed up and sniffling, too foggy-headed to pop a single bottle of bubbly. You ever try to celebrate a milestone when you sound like you’re talking through a kazoo and your hair’s stuck to your forehead in a swirl of summer sweat? It ain’t glamorous.

So, I’m calling on you, dear reader. Yes, you — with your clear sinuses and your smug, functional nostrils. Send me your home remedies, your healing spells, your grandma’s no-fail cure for the plague. I’ll take it all. Hot toddies, witch hazel compresses, mystery tinctures from your great-aunt Beulah — if it might help me feel remotely human again, I’m in.

Until then, I’ll be here — sniffling, sneezing, and dreaming of diving into a pool instead of drowning in Kleenex.

Kim Van Meter is a former full-time reporter for The Oakdale Leader, The Escalon Times and The Riverbank News; she continues to provide a monthly column. She can be reached at kvanmeter@oakdaleleader.com.