The Centers for Disease Control alarmed the public in early January when it announced that the topic of its next monthly public health briefing would be preparing for nuclear war. But the agency soon changed the subject to something it deemed more urgent: this season’s flu outbreak.
As a worrywart who flirts with hypochondria—I may catch a cold if I get any closer to it—I sweat many health warnings but ultimately towel off and get on with life. Not now, though. Not when the government in effect says, “If you think an atomic detonation on your porch is a scary thought, get a load of this.”
I’d prefer not to get even a microbe of it. The severity of this year’s worst flu strain and a map showing its prevalence in every state have brought out my most precautionary behaviors. Or, in a word, “overkill.”
Have you ever used a Clorox wipe for a handkerchief? Neither have I. But I’ve been considering it recently, as I disinfect every doorknob, lock, light switch, handle, faucet, remote control, phone, and keyboard in the house, every two days. The smell of fear now comes in “fresh scent” and “citrus blend.”
Adequate hydration, the simplest blessing we take for granted in this bountiful country, is an essential component of good health. But in times like these, my commitment is so zealous I often forget that I emptied my glass just minutes before. Refill, refill, refill—so many ounces of fluid every day that I’m afraid the EPA may soon be regulating my bladder as a “navigable water of the United States.”
Outside it’s a no-man’s land, where the virus wanders undeterred by disinfectants. It’ll attach itself to a pole in the middle of a subway car and taunt you when all the seats are taken. Resourcefulness comes in handy. Long ago I began to practice “surfing” on the train, not grabbing anything for stability. It’s a goofy look. But it freed both my hands to hold and flip the pages of the book I was reading. And this time of year it has undeniable health benefits, too—right up to the moment when the conductor yanks the brake and I clang into the pole and wind up clasping it to steady myself. The Purell won’t make the bruise go away.
But the train is the least of it. Ever notice that there are children . . . everywhere? They say children are “our future,” but until then they’re an armada of vessels armed with dangerous germs. Did the USS Seven-Year-Old just brush the hand he was using to wipe his nose across the trash can lid I’m about to open to deposit my coffee cup? Like a shy tortoise, I retract my balled fist inside the wrist of my jacket and nudge the receptacle with the fabric.
Now, for the rest of the day, the sleeve above the forearm will be off-limits. But my hands should be, anyway. Despite my paranoia, I don’t succeed in keeping them under 24-hour surveillance—who knows what escalator railing they held when I wasn’t paying attention? And that coffee cup in the trash can the germ-vessel brushed with his grimy hand? It was obtained at a café, paid for with a card inserted into a device on which there were numbered buttons dozens of other patrons had pressed. My hands will just have to live life inside my pockets. And no scratching that itch on my nose.
Trying to ignore an itch you can’t scratch is no way to go through life. For that matter, it’s no way to go through a first date, when you’re trying to make eye contact while your face is twitching itself into a Picassohead. At some point you have to excuse yourself to the restroom, where you can wash your hands—and, only after flinging them to get some of the water off, scratch that itch. It’s the only window of time available. You don’t turn off the faucet and then scratch. You don’t push down on the paper-towel lever and do it then. It is, as they say in baseball, a “bang-bang play.” And then you return to the table, aware that you’re insane and hopeful she hasn’t already figured that out.
All of this amounts to risk mitigation, and its efficacy is far from proven. I spent my birthday six years ago partying with a norovirus, and I spent St. Patrick’s Day weekend the year before that bedridden and achy—the work of pathogens, not beverages. But it wasn’t the flu. It’d be comforting if the trend were predictive, but of course that’s not how it works. So I walk back inside my house, toss my wallet and keys into the basket, Dial the bathroom sink to 10, grab a water, check the stock of Clorox wipes, and take a seat on the couch. I sniffle.
