Sick in the City

I am convinced that - second to having a terrible hangover - being sick is the worst feeling one can have in New York. I have spent the last two and half days horizontal watching endless episodes of Grey's Anatomy and catching up on my Netflix. Now, to most people this sounds heavenly, but I'm convinced that once most New Yorkers pass 4pm on Day One they already want to kill themselves.

It's not so often that we are forced to stop. In fact, I think it's ingrained in most New Yorkers' beings that you cannot stop ever. Ever. Which is probably while at this time of year we all get sick. Then we all pass it to eachother. From February through April New York City is indeed the most disgusting place on earth. Subway cars, subway seats, Starbucks, work, taxis, street corners. You're never more than 18" away from anyone at any given point on any day so for three months you just pass it around and around and around. I don't think the mid-90's syphillis outbreak in Baltimore was this bad.

So, you're forced to cancel your Saturday night plans - seeing a show with the boy you might maybe sort of have a crush on (top ten, though you haven't seen eachother in over two months because that's just sort of the way it works. "Hey," he says, "I had a lot of fun, we should do this again." "Sounds good," you respond, "How's....September?"), followed by dressing up in your new cute clothes and putting on your old killer heals and going out drinking and dancing with your girlfriends until dawn (because we never stop).

Instead I'm left at home wondering why I just watched the Purina Incredible Dog Challenge, and why I even let The Real Housewives of Orange County even play in the background of my life while I look at my exposed brick wall wondering how long I'll have to rub my wrists against it before I bleed to death and die. Just another Saturday in February in Manhattan I guess.