Wouldn’t you know it. A few days before a scheduled trip, virus hell breaks loose. As if we didn’t have enough to worry about with birds sucked into jet engines, now we have to worry about viruses spreading among the passengers by air recirculated during a four-hour flight. I’m telling you, I have a couple of masks in my purse and a whole handful of antibacterial wipes. I’m ready. You’ll read about me: “Before she was subdued and handcuffed, she wiped down three coughing passengers and a flight attendant who [she said] looked feverish.”
I’m just kidding, of course. I’d never have the guts to do that. Unless, of course, WHO raises the pandemic alert level to six before our return. At level six, I might wipe down the whole plane.
Wacky and paranoid? I have good reasons. Late in 1968 I caught the Hong Kong flu because a goofball co-worker didn’t have sense enough to stay home when he got sick. I thought I was going to die. In the early 80s, I caught the Bangkok flu, again at work. I was sure I was going to die that time. I survived both, obviously, but here’s what I learned. Goofballs go to work, and to school, and fly on airplanes, even when they’re sick and probably contagious. That’s why they’re called goofballs. And that’s why I’m traveling with antibacterial wipes.