Fever Dream with a Side of Dior

The Four Humors: A diagnosis for a sick state—where fascism meets fashion and the luxury of denial.

I. Sanguine

The bright start. Absurd resilience, a cheerful pillbox, and walking pneumonia.

It’s been a week. Or a month. Or a year. Or a life. I’ve been sick for nearly three weeks. It started in the sinuses, moved on to exhaustion and post-nasal drip, and then languidly traveled to my lungs until it erupted into a volcanic, hacking cough—like a smoker’s. I was asthmatic as a kid, so my lungs are sensitive—just like me (but resilient all the same).

I feel like I’m the sickly Fanny Price from Mansfield Park, like I should be going on walks through the English countryside to build a ruddy complexion. The word sallow comes to mind. Prone to fatigue. Fainting spells. Or maybe I’m like Jane Eyre, walking for strength and spiritual nourishment on the wild and howling moors of Yorkshire.

So I walked through Soho to CityMD.

Last week I went to my primary care doctor. She prescribed these cute little yellow balls called benzo-somethings, and then prednisone—in case I got worse. But she forewarned me: prednisone can weaken your immune system and make you anxious and irritable. So I held off. Then came Flonase for the nose. Wixela, a steroid for the lungs. Albuterol inhaler as needed. I added my own over-the-counter cocktail: Mucinex, Delsym. Plus the natural route—Astragalus, Wellness Formula, Adaptecrine for adrenal support. Fruit punch-flavored Gatorade. Water too!

The doctor at CityMD was cool. She spoke to me like I was a friend. She ordered a chest X-ray, but the technician at the NoHo location wasn’t there, for which she was profusely apologetic. That really got me thinking—yeah, this is so messed up. Why X-ray machine, but no X-ray technician? Apparently—she gave me the inside scoop—there’s a national shortage of X-ray techs. Just a few years ago, CityMD would have always had someone in-house. Now they rotate. So it’s best to call ahead. Maybe it’s a COVID thing, she said. No one really knows.

I found myself wondering—since journalism is basically dying—should I become an X-ray tech? I like the idea of being in demand. But then… what about radiation exposure? I Googled it, and they have strict protocols, but still.

The question was whether or not I had pneumonia—walking pneumonia, since I was walking. The doctor would call me with a plan after she looked at the X-rays.

I Ubered to the CityMD on 23rd Street where there was a tech. I wouldn’t normally Uber a short distance during the day like that, but it was quite possible I had walking pneumonia. Or in this case, Ubering pneumonia.

Anyway, the X-ray came back clear. The plan: doxycycline, just in case something bad was brewing in my lungs, and for the post-nasal drip cough—only two or three nights of Afrin (because it’s addictive). Then she prescribed a cough suppressant. Yes! Actually, scratch that—she said it interacts with my anxiety medication.

This was a bummer. Cough suppressants are life-changing. And what’s the worst that could happen? Some zaps? A small seizure? Incoherence? Honestly, I wouldn’t mind being stoned for once, without the paranoia.

I begrudgingly canceled plans with a friend last night and rested like Fanny Price. I had a low-grade fever, and there was so much traffic on Broome Street. Congestion pricing has been amazing, but lately—what’s happening? It seems traffic is back. Just like white men are back. An Uber driver told me Trump wants revenge on Manhattan, and that’s why he’s trying to reverse congestion pricing. He told me drivers are betting on Trump winning, so they’re taking their chances.

II. Choleric

Ire, irony, and the monster parade. FIRE and ICE. When the world burns and pretends it's a spa.

There are giant monsters roaming about, taking and crushing. Stealing. With their big dumb hands, they stuff little people—good people—into their mouths. Lick their bones clean. The more they eat, the hungrier they get. Nam nam nam.

On Instagram, I saw ICE arresting children. A little girl—maybe seven. The ICE man—Proud Boy?—goes through her pockets. Her wrists are zip-tied behind her. Her limp open hands. You can’t see her face, but she is still. “Remain silent. Just be sure you remain silent, okay?” She does what is asked. She already knows how. Grown man, what are you looking for in her pockets? With your long flashlight? Your grown hands in her pockets. What exactly are you trying to find? A Moana doll? A broken pink crayon? A My Little Pony?

I don’t want to think about it.

But that’s the problem. So many people don’t want to think about it, because it’s too upsetting. A little girl, maybe four, with a bow in her hair, a flowered dress, in court, doing the right thing, following the judicial system—watching her mother’s arrest.

It feels too painful to be alive. Too painful to look. Too painful not to look. Otherwise, what do you do? Jump into an outfit on TikTok? Hot. How about that gorgeous ruby luscious lipstick called Fucked? Or all the extraordinary anti-aging skincare packaged as “self-care”? Treat yourself to save yourself.

I’ve been thinking about getting the LYMA laser. It’s supposed to do miracles for your skin. “All my friends can see a difference,” an influencer winks. “They’re like, what did you do?” It’s upwards of four thousand dollars, but you can pay it off in monthly installments. Put it on a credit card. Think about financial consequences next year—if there is a next year. China invades Taiwan? Nuclear war? What’s the point of life anyway if you don’t look good? It works on scars too. Scars! Scars! Scars!

How’s your golf game? Hedge fund guy goes spearfishing in Montauk. Maybe take the boat out for a spin in the bay? He’s got so many fun toys! Boys’ toys! They hum, flash, conquer, kill.

A Citizen app alert just popped up on my iPhone: Dozens Detained: Several agents in Fashion District ICE Raid. Large group forming outside. Videos of men dressed like G.I. Joes, faces covered, dropping their magazines, flailing guns, standing tough. Walking like they’ve shoved the Constitution up their ass. Keeping it clenched in so the truth doesn’t fall out.

III. Melancholic

Grief as inflammation. The ache of memory. Ghosts, all of it.

I once met one of the investors in Citizen. I thought he was cute and charming. It was the summer after COVID hit—August 2020. Everyone was a little shaken. A little rabid. Shell-shocked. He got my number but never texted. I was hurt, but then I forgot about it.

A few months later, I signed up for the Citizen app, and the alerts started coming in—COVID rates, stabbings, trash cans on fire—a city unraveling in push notifications. It made me think of him. All these alerts. So I texted him—because of the app. I wrote:

Hey Fred, it’s Jasmine. I met you through David Zippedo. You mentioned the app and I have to say, it’s been an amazing resource throughout this nutty time. So thank you! I was actually just looking at all the crime in my neighborhood in Soho and thought of you re: the app. And if you’re ever in NYC, would be fun to grab a COVID-free drink!

The next morning, he replied: Hi. Glad you’re getting value out of it. I live in NYC but not really SEEING PEOPLE FOR A WHILE.

Geez. I wrote back: Totally understand. Stay safe and healthy!

Louise Hay wrote that the spiritual meaning of lung problems has to do with grief, fear of life, and lack of worth. She says the cough is “a desire to bark at the world. Listen to me!”

Hay’s affirmation for coughs: I am noticed and appreciated in the most positive ways. I am loved.

I drink tea with honey and lemon, suck on cherry Ricola, and give myself a hug. Hang in there, little Jazzy Wazzy Bo Bazzy.

Scrolling through Instagram, via Jessica Valenti: Breaking: White House rescinds federal guidance on emergency abortions. Valenti continues: To put it plainly: the White House is telling Republican-led states they can let women die.

Listen to me! Listen to us! Listen to our cries!

But you know the headlines.

IV. Phlegmatic

The balm of beauty. The mint ball. The lark. You walk to soothe what can’t be cured. Or perhaps it can. Still, you go on. Still, you write.

I’m hacking, hanging over a mint medicine ball for diaphragm support at 2 in the morning. Scrolling through Instagram. Bad idea. A video of a frightened little boy, overwrought by incomprehensible grown-up cruelty. Who am I to cry? The dark, half-lit cityscape half-sleeps. Says nothing.

I’m coughing. Can’t stop. I’m trying to get the bad stuff out of me, but my lungs are bone-dry. It burns. Strung out junkie lungs—it feels like. My AC is too cold when it’s on, too hot when it’s off—so I stick with a loud, cumbersome fan. A rubbery black ice pack for migraines rests on my chest, my stomach, my head. It’s no longer cold. Vicks VapoRub. Smells nice. Hollow strained cough. Not again.

I wonder if you can pull a lung. Googles: Can you pull a lung? No, you can’t, evidently. But it feels like you can.

Still sick. Still watching. Still writing.

Call me a pale Fanny Price. A feverish Jane Bennet. A coughing Kitty Bennet. Though I’d rather be an impassioned Jane Eyre. Will you love me Mr. Rochester? But no—not like that! Rain, tears, and a spilling heart—she runs out to the moors, into the arms of the storm.

Phlegm dripping down my throat.

Maybe later on I’ll take a walk through the wild, howling, honking streets of Soho. Perhaps I’ll do a loop starting on the corner of Louis Vuitton and Ralph Lauren, then a left over by Max Mara, past shimmering Chanel—to calm my nerves. Another left onto Mackage, next to Longchamp and Armani. A gentle turn on the corner of Etro (just by the ever-so-lovely Saint Laurent and Loewe), and past—can you say it in one breath?—Chloé, Tiffany’s, Fendi, Bottega Veneta, Dior, Balenciaga, Stella McCartney, Versace, and oh god yes, full circle—Louis Vuitton.

Touching the heath, Jane Eyre thought, “Nature seemed to me benign and good; I thought she loved me, outcast as I was; and I, who from man could anticipate only mistrust, rejection, insult, clung to her with filial fondness.”

Perhaps I’ll push on past Prada, then round to the corner of Gucci—and call it a lark! I’m hoping this will be good for the four humors of my temperament. The wind blusters, the air freshly perfumed with the luxury of denial.

— 💗 —

Find me on Instagram: https://instagram.com/jasminelobe

P.S. I’m keeping All That Jas free for now because I want these stories to be shared. But if you’d like to support my work—and help me keep creating—becoming a paid subscriber means the world.