Sunday, 8 a.m. Woke with the ever-so-tiniest trickle of something itchy in the back of my throat. "Oh, Lord," I said to my wife. "I don't want to be sick. Not with all that's going on this week. Please, God. Don't let me be sick." "Are you sick?" she asked me. "No," I said sharply. "What makes you think I'm sick? Do I look sick to you?" "I don't know," she replied. "You don't look not sick." Sunday afternoon I took a flight from San Francisco to New York. Sneezed six times.
Read the rest of the all-too-realistic tale here.