OOOPS!

I have nearly two hours before boarding for my ride to New Orleans. I’ve been driving mostly in the past year so I get to remember, relearn the TSA ritual. I did put all of my pocket load in my backpack so I wouldn’t have to undress at the x-ray machine. I am surprised that the airport that charges $5 for a cup of coffee and $8 for a skinny ham & cheese sandwich, that they provide a free wifi signal. It’s raining but wet concrete and gray sky are so similar the only clue to the horizon is a thin, brown strip of grassland in the distance. Driving in the rain, in the dark, in the early rush hour (there are two commuter rush hours) was dreadful; parked at a nearby hotel for $5 a day. They shuttle travelers to and from the airline of choice. Sometimes the new normal is better than the old one. 

Three days back from Michigan, my outlaw daughter nurse there (family by consensus) has always railed about men, that they don’t wash their hands after using the necessary room. Some do and some do sometimes but as a rule, more men zip up on the way to the door than slow down for a scrub with soap and water. If nothing else, the Chinese plague has men lined up, waiting their turn at the sink in all the truck stop restrooms. 

I must remember, don’t touch your face. I think the universal experience is to remember just after you have touched your face. My nose must have a terminal, intermittent itch that can drive me crazy if I don’t go there. I have learned to keep my fingers out of my nose but rubbing it may be instinct, it fires without permission. My other nurse-daughter, with my DNA, uses that leverage to get my attention, to what’s what and from both directions, don’t touch your face. Mucous membranes of the eyes, nose and mouth are the fast track into the body and every virus’ preferred landing zone. I sneeze in my elbow and use the cuff of my long sleeves to rub my nose when it itches, when I remember. I’m getting better. Ooops, I just touched the bridge of my nose. Damn!