The cough drop of friendship

Setting foot onto the beautiful Princeton campus this September was like wading through a cesspool of bacteria as delighted to see me as I was to move in. I was excited to meet new people, and their germs were equally, if not more, excited to meet me. We (me and the germs, that is) most certainly became acquainted. Soon enough, more fluids than the oceans of the world possess were being expelled from the cavities in my face at unprecedented rates.

As a result, I’ve acquired various epithets. Among them, there’s Monica the Asthmatic, Monica with the Fran Drescher twang and Monica the Leper. The last is an easy favorite and decidedly the most accurate. This is, of course, not the ideal condition to be in when making one’s grand entrance into a new school.

The leper lifestyle is an unfortunate one. In a group of 15 or less, the other students are perhaps sympathetic. You may even have an identity beyond “that chick with coughing fits sufficiently tempestuous to rival hurricanes.” Still, needless to say, the seats next to me in lecture are empty. Swu — the rather endearing abbreviation for the dreaded Swine Flu — is an enormously effective social deterrent.

There are those who are uninformed of the hysteria; they are most often the handshake perpetrators. One is typically confronted with the handshake more than 10 times a day in one’s first few weeks at Princeton. I pity the fool who offers me his or her hand. Does she not see any- and everything oozing out of my nose? Does he not hear the boorish combination of phlegm and wheezing? Are these people merely acting as Jesus would have? More importantly, can I absolve myself of blame with their imprudence? Have I Purelled within the last 10 minutes? (Yes, it becomes a verb when you’re sick.)

The University has offered lots of guidance for us lepers. After a particularly rough session of hacking in the bathroom, an ordinarily friendly maintenance woman glared at me from over her mask and posted a “What to do if you have the flu” sign above the garbage pail. Nice.

The first piece of advice offered on this sheet is to stay clean. Wash your hands. This statement is emphasized by the economy-sized Purell dispensers in the dining halls. Even as your run-of-the-mill bacteriaphobe, this bottle’s presence strikes me as a being a bit fascist in this hand-sanitizing crusade. Regardless of my disdain for this particular bottle, I am obliged and hereby claim responsibility for singlehandedly creating a super-bug with outrageous overconsumption of Purell.

The second suggestion is self-isolation. This is especially difficult for freshmen, who, not yet having any actual friends, are then entirely dependant on the kindness of strangers to bring them food. Let us not forget that self-isolation is also rather difficult when people live together. Room 214 in 1981 Hall is a perfect example of self-isolation’s shortcomings. I’m not alone in this sick colony; all three of my roommates have joined me, and we’ve asserted our presence with a continuous cacophony of coughing. Footsteps speed up when they pass room 214. But despite this, our collective coughing has been a valuable bonding experience, a celebration of shared human pathos. No one visits us. Justifiably, I suppose.

Our sign’s third option for help is McCosh Health Center. In a midnight Nyquil-induced frenzy I came to the realization that I had seven holes in my head, but none through which I could breathe. But suffering from my second illness — freshmanitis — I knew that I stood no chance of finding the fabled McCosh in the middle of the night, even with the Nalgene map provided by the University.

Having exhausted my options, I am forced to contribute to the cesspool, on occasion shaking a naively extended hand. I Purell more regularly than I move air through my nose. I’ve been strung out on cold medicine. Though this bacterial occupation has succeeded in scaring off potential friends and made life generally more difficult, it has powerfully aided me in befriending the other sickos. My coughing was synchronized with the coughing of another member of my seminar. Upon reaching into my bag for a cough drop, I was greeted by the sheepish face of my coughing partner. I mouthed, “Do you want one?” and handed him the lemon-mint cough drop of friendship.

My recommendation, then, is to get everyone you know sick. It’s a reckless but surefire way to make friends. Carry tissues with you to avoid embarrassment, apologize in advance for your coughing, sneezing and other sound effects, and finally, bring enough cough drops for you and your entire class.

Monica Greco is a freshman from Brooklyn, New York. She can be reached at mgreco@princeton.edu.