THE MALE POINT OF VIEW
I’m neither a hypochondriac nor a germophobe, and on the whole pretty unflappable. Give me a major health crisis—well, don’t, but you know what I mean—and I’ll handle it calmly. But at the faintest sign of a possible approaching sniffle, all bets are off. I regard the incipient cold, if that is what this slightly scratchy throat will turn into, as a personal affront. And I shift immediately into siege mentality, my mind rearranging itself into a kind of situation room.
Someone once told my wife that colds are three days coming, three days with you, and three days leaving. I’m fine with that arc, but not with the numbers: that’s a lot of days to be incommoded. Why, I always want to know, couldn’t it be three hours for each phase? So I set about trying to make it so.
Normal work-social-exercise activities continue, augmented with regular infusions of herbal tea (Celestial Seasonings Lemon Zinger) and honey (ideally from the remote Pelion region of Greece, otherwise anything that comes in a dispenser shaped like a bear—strangely comforting), the securing of a precautionary supply of cold medicine (placebo or not), and a cardigan (preferably in charcoal or black, like this shawl-collared De Bonne Facture, because they’re slimming—and when you’re puffy-eyed and sneezing every 90 seconds, any boost to your self-image is welcome). The cardigan is essential. Pullovers, sweatshirts, even bathrobes never work quite as well.
In the end, when a cold is bearing down on me, I adhere to the Kübler-Ross model for the stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. For me, the last usually arrives while I’m sipping a scotch (The Famous Grouse for a mild cold, if there is such a thing; if symptoms persist, Talisker 25) and watching The Palm Beach Story. And when the cold finally moves on, the feeling of elation is akin to being released from jury duty. —George Kalogerakis
THE FEMALE POINT OF VIEW
I had considered the notion of man flu to be arrant sexism—until I acquired a live-in male. Early in our relationship, my beloved acquired a cold. At this, he staggered stricken to my bed, demanding novels, bowls of soup, and medicinal KitKats, supported by his father’s walking stick.
Deep in the heart of the masculine soul there beats a longing for the battlefield hospital, some starry-eyed nurse by his side. The coronavirus has only legitimized this, meaning—the moment ennui strikes—our menfolk assume Death of Chatterton mode.
Start in the satirical vein you mean to go on with the AIR MAIL x Chatham man-size baby blanket. Douse his extremities in Dr. Bronner’s Lavender Hand Sanitizer. Insist on his deploying Vicks cold-quashing First Defense nasal spray, known in our house as “Stop It, Damn It.” He won’t just require vitamins; he’ll need V.I.P.-endorsed vitamins—La-La Land stalwart 8Greens.
Eagle Brand Medicated Oil is a Singaporean bath-massage-inhalation cure-all developed by a German chemist in 1916. Packed with eucalyptus, rose, and mint oils, it is distinguished by its grassy hue and bracing menthol aroma. Tiger Balm White ointment, with its blend of camphor, menthol, and clove oil, is glorious as an ache reliever and breathing-and-relaxation aid. While Proctor’s Pinelyptus Pastilles will prevent his Tiny Tim cough from keeping you awake.
Ensure you pull on the (life-changing) Drowsy Sleep Mask. An adjustable, wrap-around-the-head affair, this cult creation eradicates light, while muffling moans.
Meanwhile, invest in a Byredo Apocalyptic candle because it’s going to feel like the end of days. Its scorched-iron, papyrus, and smoked-birch scent should conjure the requisite expression of ash and incantations. —Hannah Betts
George Kalogerakis is a Writer at Large at AIR MAIL. Hannah Betts is a features writer and columnist at The Times of London and The Telegraph
