rowing up, I faked strep throat at least once a year—usually when I had an exam, a drama performance, or, simply, couldn’t find a thing to wear. It was an easy ruse, strep having few symptoms besides a slightly elevated fever (thermometer to the lightbulb—thank you, E.T.) and the patient’s sincere insistence that she, indeed, has a scratchy throat that feels an awful lot like last time. My mother thought of me as a frail, sickly child, prone to chills and infections, when in fact the opposite was true. I could have run around barefoot in a deep freeze with wet hair, sucking on sugar cubes. Believe me: I tried.

Now, as if to punish my wickedness, I do get sick every year. Usually a bout of bronchitis that doesn’t leave me bed-ridden so much as loud, sticky, and gross. This year has brought the pattern to a new level. The combination of New York allergies, weather change, and seven days of constant rain has created a perfect storm of illness. I woke up Monday at 1am, unable to breathe. I took Theraflu: Nothing. I doubtle-teamed it with Benadryl: Not enough. The week has been spent tearing through Kleenex and feeling sorry for myself. A tragedy of Shakespearean proportions—sick, without cable television!

One of these days it will stop raining. The clouds will clear, along with my sinuses. I will put away my umbrella and my Kleenex, and I will enjoy a long, sneezeless walk in the fresh shock of sunshine. And that will be the day I buy a raincoat. Having established this, it’s time to go get one.