Oh my. I feel like something the cat not only dragged in but stomped on, then ingested and hacked up 20 minutes later along with her own hair, the disembodied legs of a cockroach, and a hint of lint.

Pause for cough.

So, yeah, I'm sick. I probably have "what's going around", which makes me want to cringe. I like to think that I am better than that, that I am somehow above it all, that I am immune to the ailments and maladies and afflictions that ail, mal, and aff more common, less fabulous people who wear sensible shoes and scrunchies and don't see anything wrong with letting their significant others run around town wearing pleats. Or who can actually utter the words "significant other" without wanting to gouge out their own eyes with a grapefruit spoon.

I must confess that the first day of being sick has always been kind of fun. The first day is for indulgence, for pajamas and the sofa, alternating between naps and movies, the thrill of fruity cough drops and sympathy. As early as the second day, though, much of the glamour has evaporated. The decadence of not having showered for a day is supplanted by disgust at the delinquence, and I feel like a degenerate greaseball. I don't even dare glance in the mirror for fear of seeing a hybrid of Medusa and Charles Nelson Reilly. Certainly not the fairest of them all.

But now, slouching my way toward the end of the third day of this nonsense, I'm more than ready to breathe in air that isn't heavy with cough spores and misery. In a moment I will cast off my cushy red blanket, shower (again!), cloak myself in something more becoming than flannel pajamas, apply sufficient face paint so I appear slightly less dead than Michael Douglas, and make my way, pirouette by pirouette, to the store to purchase chocolate soy milk.

Please try to contain your jealousy.