Somewhere between the movie theater, library, Chipotle, church, and the dog shelter, I’d be able to circumvent Halloween and all its festivities entirely, or so went the original plan. Saturday was supposed to be the one day of the year when the public appears where you least expect it–on your doorstep–and the solution to compulsory candy distribution would be poetic, if nothing else: run straight into the proverbial gunfire and spend the day not on Hulu.com, but outside, immersed in the public at large.
Something happened, though, when I stood in line at the supermarket, waiting as the fellow behind me finished coughing into the back of my head, cringing as the children in the adjacent line sniffled at funereal levels, and, in a fitting finish to this special tenth circle of hell, gazing in horror as the woman in front of me presented a quarter-inch stack of coupons to the cashier.
What began as one problem–how to avoid Halloween–quickly became two, with my original solution now operating at cross-purposes to, oh, the desire to refrain from waging germ warfare on myself. Suddenly the movie theater transformed from a place of entertainment into a breeding ground for a new, improved superstrain of flu. Chipotle, a casual fiesta of pathogens in each tub of medium salsa. The library, now a repository of ancient variants of H1N1 tucked within every dusty page. The animal shelter, ground zero for a terrifying dog flu outbreak. And church? Well, you may recall from Sunday school the story of Jesus healing the lepers, but I certainly don’t recall service ever being held in leper colonies.
Deadpan once asked me whether I suffer from agoraphobia, upon which I scurried off to hide in the closest available nook. Before doing so, however, I brushed off the question as ridiculous, explaining how it wasn’t open spaces that repulse me, but what actually fills the space that sets me on edge. Put me on a Swiss mountaintop, and I will spin around deliriously, much in the style popularized by Julie Andrews. Put me on the same Swiss mountaintop with Julie Andrews and the von Trapps, and I will likely dig a hole in said mountaintop and die in it. Perhaps this is agoraphobia, then. But here, now, in today’s biohazardous landscape, my general avoidance of people may be the cure for once, rather than the curse.
Decades from now, when a particularly virulent strain of Martian flu crash lands in New Mexico by way of meteor, triggering an epidemic of startling proportions, you will likely find me in a fortified attic, tin foil hat securely fastened to my skull, with a multipurpose shotgun walking stick in one hand and a plate of nachos in the other. Oh, the newscreens shall herald a vaccine, no doubt, developed just in time to ward off this space-age sickness, but I will not partake of it. I will instead take to homespun remedies, throwing myself wholeheartedly into my noble work as I combine flax seeds, moss, and oregano into smokeable form.
That’s where my current trajectory is headed, at least. I tend to avoid doctors. Sure, I’ll grab some contact lenses from the optometrist, even visit the dentist every six months, but it’s been years since my last general checkup. It simply feels like I’d be looking for trouble, you know? And let’s not get started on the customs seemingly designed to confound: the long wait times, admonishments, uncertainty of what exactly is covered by insurance, and the privilege of booking a future visit.
The main objection to it all, I realized, is actually closer to our discussion about academia in that healthcare, like the ivory tower, is an institution that’s just not incented to answer the questions it seeks to solve. Certainly I understand the Hippocratic Oath, or the modern variant thereof, and I believe doctors themselves have the best intentions. But what if there were a breakthrough vaccine that inoculated you against, say, 50 strains of flu rather than just three? I can’t imagine the makers of cough syrups, lozenges, and decongestants would be too pleased. Or what if a mad scientist blended fluoride with nanomachines for the ultimate in dental care, leading to a precipitous drop in toothpaste used, floss purchased, and cavities filled? Would the ADA stamp that shit?
Ever since high school, I’ve tried to steer away from this grid, and luckily I’ve met wise individuals every step of the way, oracles who suggest alternatives to popping pills from the word go. I’ve refrained from flu shots for two years now, spurred by secret intel from Earth Chick about the diabolical additives mixed into every batch, and I feel great. I’ve got to be honest, though. The recent coverage on vaccination shortages, along with the storm of coughing that covers approximately everywhere, has made me consider hunting down a dose a few times now. But then I come to my senses and vow to stick to the basics: washing my hands, breathing through my nose as much as possible, getting ample sleep, and, most importantly, continuing to bite my nails. It’s a habit I developed in second grade, and I’m convinced it’s beneficial to my health. It’s like having my immune system party with a whole mess of petri dishes.
Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, October 27.