04.07.03 - 5:44 p.m.

OK. Here is my problem. I know I am on the train to sickness because my head feels like it's stuffed with cotton, my eyes are dry, puffy and slowly working their way into teeny squints, and every muscle in my body is whispering, "Sleep! Just curl up and close your eyes! Right on the floor here! Or in your car! You know you want to!"

And while normally I would cut my losses and use a precious sick day, I can't. Not because of any work deadlines (feh), but because of the winter storm. Our office policy, as administered by the evil Russian HR woman, is that if you call in sick the day of a snowstorm, you must produce a doctor's excuse. Otherwise, you use up a vacation day or don't get paid�your choice. Now, no way in hell am I schlepping out to the doctor. I know what's going on. It's the dreaded change-of-seasons cold. It doesn't require anything but Advil, fluids and sleep. And I can't rest. Because there is a winter storm that is forcing me into work.

The city was empty yesterday. Creepy empty. I was the only person hoofing it through the tunnels of the Times Square subway station at one point. I thought I was going the wrong way because I wasn't used to following a writhing, seething mass of people. Creepola.

However, this strange emptiness did have its high points, like when I didn't have to fight hordes of highlighted trendorexics at Henri Bendel and when Kerry and I were able to walk down Fifth Ave. without being trampled by the masses. Seriously. I probably could have stretched my arms out like da Vinci's Perfect Man at 5th and 52nd and not hit anyone. Even H&M was dead.

And yet. I didn't have to squeeze my way through Bendel, and yet they still overcharged me by $10 for my new bag (actually, three bags in one, like little khaki Russian nesting bags held together with lobster clips). And an Avril-Lavigne-style tween nearly plowed me over twice. Le sigh. Perhaps someone should take away her allowance until she learns the basics of "Excuse me." Why do I torture myself by even setting foot in that place?

We saw Joe Levy walking along Houston St. and poked each other non-surrepetitiously and squealed as if we'd seen an actual star. Too bad it wasn't Alan Light. I would have been all, 'hey, I'm Abe's old student. I focus grouped for you a few times. How 'bout a job at that new magazine of yours, eh? I make a mean milkshake!'

But it wasn't Alan, it was Joe, and though I feel like I know him after watching too many MTV/VH1 specials, I'm not deluded enough to think I could walk right up to him and ask for employment. Though the day may soon come when I am that desperate.

I'm happy Dan likes his Sims. I'm happy he finally got the birthday present I intended to give him last September. I'm happy I now feel well enough to go to yoga tonight, lest I waste money on my 10-pack of classes. I'm happy we got at least one curtain installed this weekend. I'm happy I get to leave soon. If I can find a parking space directly outside the yoga studio, I'll be even happier.