Sick at Work

Being sick is the worst. Drown with us in the struggles of sniffles as we express ourselves through the use of GIFs. And this video.



Last week was hell. My brain seemed to have forged a sinful pact with my respiratory system — “If you quit, I’ll quit.” And so it was done.


I haven’t had to take antibiotics since moving to LA. One of the simple “facts of life” in New York:  winters are hard. With hard winters come fatigue, immune system depletion and lots and lots of germs looking for a warm home to set up shop and pedal devilish wares to unsuspecting body cells.


I’m not going to pretend that being sick is any worse for me than it is for anyone. I have 30 years of shitty winters under my belt so this should have been a cake walk. But it wasn’t…


For two weeks of misery, all I wanted was my mommy. I’m the needy kind of sick:

  • I’m the kind of patient who likes cuddles. I’ll knot myself around you and spread my germs all over your pillow.
  • I don’t like to be left alone, and I don’t like to just rest…I’ll get out of bed, do a lap around the apartment, fall asleep again on the couch until 2, then wake up desperately needing to just.get.out.
  • Watch a Girls marathon with me and commiserate as I mourn my lost youth in between coughs and nose blows?
  • I bobbed and weaved around my boyfriend’s dodging arms just because his cool skin felt amazing against my burning forehead.
  • Instead of sick days, I worked from home to keep busy. One bad decision leading to two couch-bound weekends.


Luckily I wasn’t contagious.

On the days that I just couldn’t sit on the couch any longer, I’d haul ass into the office. I was disgusting. In spite of my mucusy mess of spewy nastiness, I kept reminding myself that this weakened state was part of my lifestyle just a few years ago. It was commonplace and expected that a working New Yorker would brave the grimy germ-infested subway to show face in the office unless on your deathbed.


Maybe the easy-breezy life has gotten the best of me?



A fail-safe, quick and easy way to procure a personal deadline crisis: have a man sneeze near your open mouth in an airport.


If you’re familiar with jobs, or work for that matter, you know that some deadlines can’t be pushed, even when a stranger sneezes at the same time you’re inhaling, thus transferring an incurable, devastating, classic cold.

Two days later. I’m sitting at my computer, wishing my core-strengthening exercise ball chair was a love sac and I was covered in a blanket made of cats.


After forcing myself out of bed, I made a pour over using expensive small-batch craft-roasted coffee and can’t taste it.


My skin pigment is that of someone with little to no melanin. My eyes burn with puffy rims the color of Red Skittles. I just want to throw everything off my desk and sob.


And I’m on a very important deadline.


Everyy 5-7 minutes, I’m interrupted by the cycle of sneezes, which happens as follows:

1) Make the sneezy face for 15 seconds, and inhale and exhale dramatically whilst my watery eyes bulge out of my face

2) ‘Cute’ sneeze so nobody thinks I’m disgusting.

3) Wipe my hands on my jeans.

4) Walk to the bathroom to wash my hands.

5) Come back, get a little work done, and relive the process minutes later.


What I have to do: finish my work with excellence.


What I want to do: Nyquil the day away.


Lesson learned: wear a face mask at the airport.