A couple of weeks ago, I boarded the plane to New York. It hadn’t even taken off yet when I realized I was doomed. The captain was saying something, but I couldn’t hear over the sounds of other passengers hacking and wheezing like they were all trying out for the death scene of La Bohème. 

By day three after we landed, I was coughing. By day five, I was frightening small dogs and children on the street. At the Broadway show Waitress* on day six, it was clear the woman in front of me regretted the mandatory purse screening that meant she was unarmed and could only snarl threats at me as I unwrapped cough drops which some sadist sold in individual little crinkly wrappers. We will not discuss the flight home, except to say hooray for my two new BFFs, Mr. Drugs and Miss Booze. While we party…