First, you’re all:

Because there’s no way you’re getting sick. It’s just a little congestion.

So you go about your day, but then you get up the next morning, and:

All right, fine. It’s the flu. You stock up on orange juice and neti-pot yourself every hour, on the hour, which you keep track of by watching the entirety of Star Trek: The Next Generation. After a couple days of this, you start to feel better. And since you’ve been stuck in bed with nothing but Captain Picard and a giant pile of tissues, you’re all:

Yes! Let’s go out to the lobby! Or the mall! Or to dinner! I don’t care if I can’t taste it yet, I feel better!

And maybe you get away with this for a day, or two, or – in my case – three. Three days! All the things! And after this, you’re totally:

So you’ve done all the things, you’re on the mend, and you settle in for a good night’s sleep. Then you wake up the next day:

I’ll be in bed if anyone needs me.