Dear SOS!,
With cold season in full-swing, I've been spending more time at Health Services than I have in my own dorm room. My life has become a tissue-filled tangle of phlegm, throat-clearings and cough-attacks, all of which have only been momentarily alleviated by a ridiculous dosage of Sudafed.
Although those glorious red pills are doing their best to keep my cold at bay, all of my symptoms are somehow amplified each time I enter the library, causing both disgusted eye-rolls and patronizing mutterings. How can I prevent myself from being further socially ostracized with each sniffle?
Sincerely,Ultra Sick Chick
Dear Ultra Sick Chick,
First of all, mad props for taking charge and visiting Health Services. With my case of ailment, however, in a state of quasi-hippie stubbornness, I consciously chose not to use medical intervention, and instead crossed my fingers and hoped that the homeopathic combination of Emergen-C and Airborne would fizz my sickness away in no time. And so, here I am, left sniffling amidst a wasteland of vitamin-residue-encrusted water glasses, attempting to address your query.
Although my prolonged sickness has wreaked havoc on my sinuses as well as my social life, it has done its job to educate me in the proper "Ailing-Library-Etiquette."
Before you embark on the Tisch-Trek (damn you, Metcalf!), you need to prepare by stocking your book bag with necessities for the worst-case scenario. Be sure to pack a large bottle of water (to suppress incoming coughs and moisten an arid throat), a coffee mug filled with tea and honey (make sure to let the tea bag string hang out from the top: it warns people that you are sick, acting in the same manner as a mug wrapped with caution tape would), tissues (or stolen napkins from Dewick, if you roll as bootleg as I do), and cough drops (or, more bootleg still, a tin of mints).
Once you've strapped on your emergency kit and ventured on the Tisch-Trek, you need to rate your anticipated level of symptom-prevalence. Your rating should be on a scale of one to 10; one being the occasional dry sniffle and 10 being the full-blown faucet-nose/phlegm-cough combo. Ones and twos are accepted in the reading room, while twos through sevens are only tolerated in the study area past the reference desk on floors one, two, and three.
Eights should sit in the Tower Caf?©, granted it is that time of night when no one actually gets work done (the flirtatious chuckles of the couple next to you will suffice to muffle your habitual sneezing). Nines should really migrate downstairs to the individual study rooms, reserved for group-project work, and the constant coughers. Tens, however, out of common courtesy, should just do everyone a favor and stay in their rooms (especially if they hate their roommates ... but if that's not the case, they should have a spare pair of Brookstone noise canceling headphones on hand).
Numbers aside, there are a few etiquette policies all ailing students should keep in mind when studying in the library danger zone. As a general rule, it is always more socially acceptable to keep all cold-produced fluids inside the nasal cavity. Although the rhythmic sniff is obnoxious, it draws less attention to the said sniffler than would a wet cacophony of snot blown into an all-too thin tissue.
And if for some reason you neglected to follow my aforementioned advice and find yourself sans tissues and/or Dewick napkins, present attire will have to suffice in times of dire need. Hopefully, with winter just around the corner, you should be cold-weather-conscious enough to be sporting a long-sleeved garment that can double as snot collector.
However, the sleeve-to-nose maneuver is reliant on total accuracy. It takes precise timing and aim to ensure proper execution: the wipe should not venture past the forearm, and the remaining vestige should NEVER be discernable by the naked eye.
Another library consideration are the cough attacks. Coughing is a tricky symptom, because it leaves very little room for improvisation. Even the most socially acceptable form of coughing, Zoolander's signature "I think I'm getting the black lung, Pa" cough, though not entirely disgusting, can reach levels of annoyance that go beyond that of the constant sniffle.
And even more embarrassing still is the symptom-which-must-not-be-named: "the phlegm cough." To an extent, nasal fluid-ridden tissues are socially accepted by the sympathetic masses. On the other hand, it is the oral fluid-ridden tissue that remains unspeakably shunned by society.
Let it be said once and for all: never should an ailing library-goer cough fluids into (or outside of) a tissue. And when it comes to publicly suitable cold symptoms, these rules just aren't made to be broken.
