Hacking-Up-a-Lung

"Do you have a six-pack?" my high school sisters asked me the last time I was home.

They weren't talking about beer. They were lying back on my parents' bed, hands folded behind their heads, watching some nonsense sitcom when I wandered into the room.

I think my amazingly imposing physique prompted them to ask. (take note of uncharacteristically thick sarcasm)

So, my highly intelligent reply was, "Girls can only have four-packs." I had heard this from a classmate of mine, when we were talking about the difference in body fat content of healthy male and female bodies.

"Well, I have a six-pack!" my youngest sister--16 in two weeks--immediately lifted up her shirt and raised her head off the bed. She played her right fingers backhanded down her abdomen, proud of the two little rows of indentations.

"Wow. I guess you do!" I said, thinking to myself, "no wonder the doctor says she's underweight."

Well, my coughing fits since I landed back in New York have put me in the running for a six-pack, as well. Or at least, they are making me feel like I should be, anyway!

On Monday, I was doubled over on the back porch of Frank's brother's house, incessantly throwing forth dry, dog-sneezing-sounding coughs. Another of his brothers, Antonio, turned to me and made the keen observation: "Are you in pain?"
I patted my abdomen just below my ribs (that is, my diaphragm) and responded, "It's --cough, grimace-- sore --cough-- here --grimace-- from the coughing."

Tonight, after I picked up Frank and Sharon from the airport, we stopped by the restaurant that Antonio manages, so Frank could pick up his car. Antonio was just outside.

He patted his abdomen, "How do you feel? Any better?"

"It's not sore anymore," I told him. "I think I'm getting buff."

Frank's Mom is convinced I've developed allergies.
"You know, your body's system changes every seven years."
But...26 isn't a multiple of 7....

And ...I checked. No six-pack yet.