I try to spare the details from my friends. I'm sick, which basically means none of my bodily functions are working correctly. And when they're not working correctly, they get pretty gross. I mean, nobody ends up shooting flowers out of their ass.

So I say I'm feeling weak, getting hot and cold chills, have a stuffy nose and horrible sore throat. I venture out onto a limb and say, "Well, and I'm coughing up phlegm."

You'd think I announced I found a Mazda Miata in front of my house with a big red bow on its hood. "What color is it?" Mark gasps excitedly.

I'm reluctant to overshare. The fact is, though, I barely remember. I can't swish the stuff down the drain fast enough. It's pure, hard evidence that something is seriously wrong -- plus, well, it's disgusting. I'm hardly going to examine it like a tiny Monet. "It's canary yellow," I announce, "with a bold streak of lime green to draw the eye around."

He ignores my sarcasm. "That means it's bacterial," Mark says. "With a course of antibiotics it'll be gone in a few days."

When I hang up I can hardly believe I've had this conversation. Do I really have a friend who's memorized the meanings of every possible color of phlegm? I mean sure, I've always wanted to learn the various breeds of cows, but they're fun and frolicsome, and they don't live up my nose.

Minutes later Charles calls up, and literally eight seconds into the conversation he's quizzing me on color. Now I realize this isn't just Mark's personal weirdness: it's a trend that I've missed. We're all so ridiculously body-conscious that now we're even learning how to read hidden meanings into our excretions.

I feel my face redden. It's like I've missed an entire season at Armani Home. When did this happen? When did I fall behind? I repeat the details and with an insufferable smugness he confirms Mark's diagnosis. When I hang up I'm wondering if he's going to send me a bill.

And then Steve calls, and it's the straw that broke the camel's back. I refuse to look like an idiot again. I refuse to let every one of my friends prove they're smarter than me. Raoul sent me a bunch of flowers, so I describe a peony. Lots of red, a little purple, spots and streaks and whorls.

I can hear Steve's befuddlement over the phone line. I win! I think. I'm not an idiot! "Stick yourself in a vase and call me in the morning," he snaps before hanging up.