It’s that time of year again kiddos, Kleenex boxes and cough drops are flying off the shelves, Vitamin C is being consumed at unprecedented levels, and every lecture hall is filled with someone coughing every five seconds. Three weeks of little sleep, sharing everything without hesitation, some exchanges of saliva, and living in close proximity to thousands of undergrads have taken their tole. The BC plague is beginning to rear its ugly head once again.

I find myself sitting in 9 a.m. American Literary History II, sounds riveting I know. Well for all you English haters we are actually having a very interesting conversation on post civil war literature not that I can concentrate whatsoever. We’ve all been there; college is nothing like high school, sick days just don’t happen. You better either be in the hospital or in class there’s no in between. Hence we find me sitting in my third row seat slightly holding my breath thinking maybe this will keep me from coughing. I cannot be that girl who is hacking up a lung the entire class, I despise that girl and yet I am about to become her. It starts with that slight tickle in the back of your throat and a gulp of that $3.59 orange juice subdues it for all of ten seconds. Then alas my nose begins to become unbearably filled and even worse slightly runny and a Kleenex must be sacrificed for the greater good. I reach for the pack and to my dismay have only two remaining and forty-five minutes left in class. Let the struggle begin.

Every tick of the clock seems to take an hour as I simultaneously struggle not to cough while trying to breathe out of my 99 percent clogged nose. Knowing that if I try to breath through my mouth the tickle will become unbearable. This is the point where you forget what it feels like to be healthy. I begin questioning if I will ever get better, what if this is the end? The guy behind me starts hacking up a lung so I find it acceptable to let out a little cough of my own but it seems to make the tickle in my throat only stronger. I take a nervous glance at the clock and only five minutes have passed. Can everyone tell how miserable I am or has my struggle gone unnoticed? Oh how I yearn for the days of first grade when you could go home sick for having a slight fever.

Now lets fast-forward 30 minutes, it’s the home stretch and I’m about to use my last Kleenex. (Let’s not even mention the struggle of finding the perfect balance between blowing your nose in class loud enough that it alleviates your stuffed nose but not too loud that you will attract the unwanted looks of all those around you. My roommates can attest that I’ve been mistaken for an elephant when blowing my nose within the confines of our little quad in Walsh.) Every tick of the clock is one less percent I can breathe from my nose, just two more minutes I can make it. (At this point I begin to miss the days of middle school when teachers were kind and kept Kleenex boxes in the room but no apparently that’s not an okay practice at BC. What am I kidding, we get single ply toilet paper they’d never give us Kleenex.) Finally the clock ticks to fifty and I’m ready to sprint out the door but no, we have to finish the discussion point we’re on. Death is upon me, I can either hold my breath or start hacking up a lung which I may not be able to stop. As the breaking point nears those heavenly words are spoken, “See you all next week.” I sprint to the bathroom like my life depends on it, blow my nose and take a deep breathe of sweet relief. Now only two more classes to get through…

So break out those hand sanitizers, lock yourself in your room, clorox wipe every surface you get near before you touch it, invest in a face mask and maybe, just maybe you'll be able to avoid my pain. Now let’s face it, we’re all doomed to the fate of walking around looking like the sad soul in a Puffs commercial, Rudolph nose and all. I wish you all better luck than I, and for you few lucky souls who can avoid it, please take pity on the rest of us and don't be too mad at making class sound more like a hospital than a school.