The cold marches on. I've moved into the sneezing-and-coughing stage, which is at least a departure from the runny-nose platform of the weekend.

Every time I'm sick, my mother says, "Drink a couple of glasses of wine. I promise it'll help." Every time, I tell her that I've played that game and it always makes the cold last longer. In my increasing age, I have learned that when I'm sick I have to be a saint until it passes. It sucks for a few days, or a week, but it's better than the drawn-out decline I face if I give in and have the glass of wine. A little self-control now pays off in the end.

Over the past week, roughly half a dozen people have, upon hearing the congestion in my voice, advised me to drink whiskey to kill the bug. For a while I was good. For a while I stuck to my regimen of tea and water and trying to get more sleep. On Sunday, Katrina told me, "Oh, you're sick? Drink some whiskey. Works every time." So I thought, "Screw it." I went home, opened up an essay to revise, and poured myself a modest little glass of bourbon. It singed pleasantly in my throat, in my sinuses, on my chapped lips. It warmed me from the inside. The revision went well, and I crawled into bed anticipating perfect health when I woke.

Instead, I woke up equally congested and on the edge of losing my voice. So much for my dumb friends and their advice. Sticking to the austerity plan until this thing moves on for good.