In 1988, Pat Robertson stopped by Flagstaff to give a speech as part of his presidential campaign tour. There are two things that I remember about that speech: one, that people wearing white plastic cowboy hats look just about as stupid as you’d think they would, and two, that wearing a Jesse Jackson Rainbow Coalition t-shirt to a Pat Robertson rally really is no way to make friends.
I know the first because for some reason Robertson’s advance guard distributed a ton of the white plastic monstrosities (what was their selling point? “Looks good on absolutely no one”?) before his visit, and I know the second because that’s what a friend of mine chose to wear as she stood six inches away from Robertson’s podium and heckled him. I was standing at her side at the time. (Why? Because she had said, “Hey, I’m going downtown—want to come?” Always, always get specifics.) As we endured a near constant stream of the most non-profane vitriol I have ever heard (Robertson supporters would never curse; it was kind of like being chewed out by your grandmother—the one who doesn’t live in the trailer park), I remember thinking that at least it would now never be possible for me to be any less popular than I was at that particular moment in time. That, barring an unforeseen appearance on the Jerry Springer Show, that particular moment, at that particular Pat Robertson rally, would always mark the absolute low point of my unpopularity.
And then I went and had children. Worse yet, I had children who are allowed outside of their plastic bubbles during the flu season.
You’d think, from the reactions I get, that we’re living during plague times, and that my kids are not only walking around covered in plague boils, but also carrying a rat in each pocket. “Is he sick?” the cashier will ask me sharply when my son, Clyde, gives a little sniff. “If he’s sick then he should stay home.”
“No,” I’ll protest, “he’s not sick. He’s just a sniffler. He’s always been a sniffler. Nothing to worry about.”
“Hmm,” she’ll reply, clearly thinking that I am lying, and that, in fact, I have just recklessly sliced open the seal on my quarantined front door so that I can blithely run amuck, wantonly spreading germs in my wake. And then she’ll reach for the Purell. Of course, she won’t have to reach far—it’s impossible to walk ten feet anymore without seeing a Purell dispenser. Hand sanitizer has become the good luck talisman of the 21st century—whereas our ancestors used to carry blue beads to ward off the Evil Eye, we carry little blue and white bottles to ward off the Evil Bacteria. Personally, I’d rather have the blue bead—less chance of it spilling in my purse.
Really, though, it’s enough to make me wonder: what kind of pioneer stock are we descended from that we now are not only incapable of hunting and gathering our own food, but won’t even use a grocery cart unless the handle has been sanitized first? Because, you know, it might have been touched. By a child. Who sniffles.
Here’s a little secret about the flu: you’re going to get it. Or you’re not. That’s it. Unless you’re planning on rolling around town in a giant hamster ball, it doesn’t matter how many times a day you wash your hands; you’re still going to get sick.
Or you’re not. Just quit obsessing about it, okay? Stop reaching for the Purell every time one of my kids gets within fifty feet of you. And while you’re at it, take off that white plastic cowboy hat. It really does look stupid.