FLU DIARIES, PT 1.

Day one: On a work trip, you get the familiar throat tickle. At this point it is clear you are in stage one of the grieving process: denial. “Nothing to worry about,” you think, like a simpleton. “Nothing a little work nap can’t solve.” Your work ethic is impeccable.

Day one, two hours later: You wake up with five minutes to spare before the last train leaves for Newark. The elevator is taking too long, so you look like the female Jason Statham as you parkour down five flights of stairs. You then realize you’re on the 50th floor of the Empire State Building. You exit the stairwell and wait for the elevator. Once on the ground floor, you dramatically toss your overnight bag over your shoulder and start booking it down west 31st street in your cheap heels. “I could have been a believable extra in Saving Private Ryan,” you think, incorrectly. You make the train just in time.

Day one, one hour later: Now safely lodged in your plane seat, the throat tickle returns. “Yes, can I get two bottles of wine, one red, one white?” you ask the attendant. Smart. Can’t be too safe.

Day one, twenty minutes later: No dice. Neither bottle of wine has defeated the sore throat, they have only made you sleepy and bad at the crossword puzzle you ripped out of the back of the in-flight magazine.

Day two: You wake up and everything is terrible. Congestion, cough, sore throat. The dark trinity. Your boyfriend looks at you with fear in his heart and says, “Oh god. What’s wrong.” “Just a small cold,” you manage to wheeze back out. This is a lie.