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Day five: You have now moved into the second stage of the grieving process: anger. As your boyfriend tries to feed you a sandwich while you lie supine in bed, you snap at him. “Do not look at me.” “What???” he replies, incredulously. “Do not look at me with your eyes.” “You shouldn’t have gone to that party.” You know you should not have gone to the party. You look at him and imagine hobbling his ankles, Kathy Bates-style. You do not know where this ire is coming from. All you know is that you feel very clammy. You fall back asleep and have strange fever dreams about starring in a strangely erotic 1970s cream of wheat commercial.

Day six: You now have only five days left before you must catch a plane to Vienna. You imagine getting on the plane for your thirteen-hour flight still sick with the flu and triggering the end of human society as we know it, like Gwyneth Paltrow in that one movie where she is sick and also on a plane. You will do anything to avoid being like Gwyneth Paltrow. You must get well. We have entered phase three: bargaining. No more booze, no more erratic sleep. You recommit yourself to mindfulness and health and the pursuit of becoming a hydrated, glowing kale-infused mother goddess.

Day six, three hours later: You decide that a small glass of red wine will increase mindfulness. Only leads to desire for more wine.

Day seven: It is clear that you have entered into the second-to-last stage, depression. You begin sporadically crying. Your boyfriend hugs you and asks, “What’s wrong?” After coughing for approximately three minutes, you reply, through tears, “I am… so small. And so weak.”
You have reverted to an almost infantile state, unable to do anything but cry when you are hungry or need to sleep. You imagine Jung or Freud or one of those other perverts would probably have a lot to say about this current state. You get a letter in the mail from the IRS telling you someone has stolen your identity. You call the recommended hotline and speak to a very monotonous man named Roger who clearly lacks a passion for both revenue (internal or otherwise) and perhaps also services. You begin crying part way through the call and Roger is caught off guard. “Oh…ma’am, it will probably be fine. Just keep monitoring your credit reports.” “No, no,” you say. “I’m not upset about this. I’m just very sick.” “I’m so sorry to hear that.” You realize Roger believes you have some type of terminal illness. “No—not like cancer or anything.” Roger hangs up the phone.

Day eight: You have reached the final stage of grieving: acceptance. You try to log in to Netflix and find that the day you’ve been dreading has finally come—your ex-roomate’s ex-friend’s ex-girlfriend whom you’ve never met has grown tired of your repeated viewings of Last Holiday starring Queen Latifah messing up her “suggested movies” algorithm and has cut you off from the sweet teat of her Netflix subscription. You wonder what you have done in your life to deserve this. You lie on the couch with your eyes closed and sing famous spirituals until your boyfriend tells you that if he has to listen to you sing Amazing Grace one more time, he’s going to gouge out his own eardrums with the tines of a fork. Since you are loving and dedicated partner, you agree to accept death in silence.

(Heading into day nine now, so pray for me. Will report back with findings.)

Day four: After waking up in the hotel with both a half-eaten piece of beef jerky AND a half-eaten salt-and-vinegar chip in your mouth (impressive) and voice completely gone (less impressive), it’s time to hit the road. You remember that you have another Christmas party to go to tonight. This Christmas party is known as the party of the year– over-the-top formal dress code, held in a beautiful old mansion, full of weird, gorgeous people, open bar, the works. You apologetically text your friend, “I’ve lost my voice and don’t think I can make it.” “Bring a notebook,” she replies.

Day four, five hours later: At the Christmas party, you quickly down two hot toddies and manage to craft together some semblance of a voice that sounds like Lindsay Lohan and a toad had a baby. At one point, you find yourself waiting in line for the bathroom next to a man in a sequined tuxedo, talking about the time you almost got deported from England for tearing down a Subaru billboard. “I’m sorry if I’m talking too much. I’m kind of fucked up on Sudafed right now,” you say, as if this will somehow provide clarity. You spot an acquaintance at the bar and he wanders up to you as you wait in line. “Hey, if I start acting weird, will you let me know?” he says. “Sure. But pray tell, why might you start acting weird?” “I dunno, I just took some ecstasy,” he replies nonchalantly, as if he’s reporting the weather in Brisbane. “Well, if you just took ecstasy, I would give it about 20 minutes before you stop being concerned with whether or not you’re acting weird” you say. This conversation gives you great relief, as you are no longer saddled with being the only drug-addled weirdo at the party. “Are you sure you don’t want some?” “No, I’m sick” you say, piously, a pillar of health, etc. “If you’re sick, why are you at this party?” You resent this acquaintance.

Day four, seven hours later: You walk into your apartment and your boyfriend emerges from the bedroom, squinty-eyed and blinking. “It’s six in the morning.” “Oh, is it?” you say, acting as if you did not know. “Aren’t you sick?” You resent this boyfriend.

Day three: Your office Christmas party is tonight and although you woke up feeling even worse than yesterday, (“IT’S JUST A SMALL COLD, OKAY”) you are determined to show up. You rush-ordered an $80 denim jumpsuit for this party and it came just in time. Although you ordered a size up from the size you regularly wear, to your horror, the jumpsuit will not zip up all the way. Your force your boyfriend to crocodile-wrestle the zipper into submission and he manages to finally, sweating and panting, get it closed. You resent this jumpsuit. 
The office Christmas party is two hours away in San Antonio and will be an overnight affair. You lie down in the backseat of a rented BMW and try not to breathe too hard, lest the jumpsuit decide to rebel and take up its quest for freedom from the cruel reign of your back fat. Although you have a pounding headache and are mysteriously both very hot and very cold, you close your eyes and focus on mindfulness. Your coworker who is driving decides to play trap music very loudly for the entire ride. You struggle to focus on mindfulness.

Day three, two hours later: At the hotel, drinking a glass of wine with your boss, she says, “Love the jumpsuit. How are you going to pee, though? You’re practically glued into that thing.” You look over and see the look of abject horror on your boyfriend’s face. “We forgot about pee,” he says.

Day three, one hour later: Having not properly planned for this disaster, you are now in ripped jeans and a man’s undershirt at cocktail hour. You lose your voice while engaged in a vigorous discussion with your boss’s wife about the murky ethics of second-hand fur coats. “Not to worry,” you think. “Nothing a cigarette can’t solve.” This is fundamentally the opposite of the truth, but this makes sense, because you are a fool.

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.