y purchase at the pharmacy was self-explanatory: Robitussin Cough & Cold (nighttime); Robitussin Cough & Cold (daytime); cough drops; chapstick; a bottle of Aleve; Kleenex; green tea; and one box of hair dye, because what else is a girl to do with all this downtime? In the battle between me and bronchitis, a victor had been named.

I’m a miserable sick person. I’m cranky and quite certain my cough is probably the worst cough anyone has ever had, and yet I’m forever reluctant to go to a doctor. “If it’s that bad, you should see someone,” my friends say. “You’re right,” I tell them, and then I just linger in bed, thinking about how sad things are for me. Even the cat has abandoned me, realizing that sleeping on my chest is akin to building his home atop an erupting volcano.

Besides reacquainting me with my daytime TV favorites—“Hey there, Oprah, Dr. Phil. How’s it been going, Starting Over?”—this nasty bout has reminded me that in New York City, warm clothing isn’t just a matter of fashion. See, I’ve always thought of hats and mittens and scarves as mere accoutrements and the decision to wear them on par with whether or not to wear earrings and lipstick. But now, I’m ready to throw out any notion of cuteness in favor of unflattering Michelin coats and wool ski masks. Hey, I can even rob a few gas stations. Let’s just hope they have Robitussin.