Typhoid Mary

I still have the flu/sinus infection whatever it is, and not a soul in my immediate circle of friends or family can bear hearing about it any longer.

Illnesses have a shelf life.

If you go over the allotted time, you become persona non grat;, a pariah in your own home; a whining, sniveling baby -- even if you are as brave as I am, trying with all my might to get rid of the various vapors, fluids and germs residing in my body.

The phone rings and I pick up and say Hello. (It's my friend Pat.)

She responds: Talk about nasal! You still have it? When are you going to get better? You sound awful. What are you doing for it?

She’s attacking me with questions.

Are you taking care of yourself? How long have you had it? Have you seen a doctor? Are you getting enough rest?

I was going to pop over, return your book and have a cup of coffee, but now I'm not coming in --I’m not going anywhere near you!

Great stay away, I think.

If I remember correctly it was you who stopped by one day to borrow that very same book and sneezed and coughed all over my kitchen and short of zapping you with Lysol,-- I had no choice but to breathe in your wafting snorts and sniffles and other assorted, evil effluents.

I hate trying to locate the genesis of a germ, but people like my friend Pat who tells me: I’ll leave the book on your porch, I’m not coming in your house, make me feel like Typhoid Mary must have felt.

I feel like there's a pox on my house and soon a gray-bearded man is going to nail up a board across my front door that says: Quarantined.