July 23, 2014 at 2:10 p.m.
His 'gift' from vacation (3/23/05)
Dear Reader
By By Jack Ronald-
I blame Ginger.
Oh, sure, that's probably not fair.
This time of year, every venture into public is yet another chance to become infected with one bug or another.
Shake a hand, get a virus.
Share a conversation, share a cold.
There's something about late winter/early spring (and I'd really like for Mother Nature to tilt toward the latter instead of the former) that seems to make us all more susceptible to illness.
But, in this case, I'm blaming Ginger.
The evidence all points in her direction.
Ginger, whom you've never met, is a flight attendant for one of the regional airlines which act as poor step-children to the even poorer, nearly-bankrupt national airlines.
She's good enough at her job, although she sometimes lets her perkiness get the better of her.
Her supervisor — not I — would probably also point out that her figure's about half a size too wide for the aisle in a regional jet.
The real problem, though, was neither her terminal perkiness nor her figure.
It was her cold.
On our way home on the last leg of a spring break getaway, we found ourselves in the back row of the plane. There was only one seat behind us: Ginger's.
It wasn't until we were settled in and taxiing toward a take-off that we noticed the cough. Then noticed it again. Then again.
Ginger, who had already introduced herself while instructing us all on how to buckle our seat belts and how to hold our seat cushions to our chest as a flotation device though our flight would go over no water larger than a wetland, should have been home in bed.
She was one sick puppy.
But before I could muster some sympathy, I had to worry about self-preservation.
Ginger was seated right behind my right shoulder.
I could literally feel the coughs, crashing like germ-filled waves on my arm. I imagined them like bad illustrations in a movie in high school health class, green and toxic with little skulls and crossbones on them.
This, I thought, is not going to be good.
Moderately dehydrated, exhausted from travel and a great vacation, I may as well have had a sign on my forehead reading, "Infections welcome here." I was the germ equivalent of fertile ground.
Things didn't improve a few minutes later when the soft drinks and pretzels were passed out by — you guessed it — Ginger.
Did I take some? Sure. Why not? The damage had been done by then, I figured.
Our plane made it home safely.
That's the good news.
The bad news is that Ginger's infection hit me nicely within the incubation period, about five days later when I woke up with a scratchy throat.
So far, I've been able to knock it down pretty quickly. At least I sound better than Ginger did, and I think I'm a less likely candidate for passing it on.
But, just in case, you probably should have been reading this column with rubber gloves on.
Sorry. (Cough.)[[In-content Ad]]
Oh, sure, that's probably not fair.
This time of year, every venture into public is yet another chance to become infected with one bug or another.
Shake a hand, get a virus.
Share a conversation, share a cold.
There's something about late winter/early spring (and I'd really like for Mother Nature to tilt toward the latter instead of the former) that seems to make us all more susceptible to illness.
But, in this case, I'm blaming Ginger.
The evidence all points in her direction.
Ginger, whom you've never met, is a flight attendant for one of the regional airlines which act as poor step-children to the even poorer, nearly-bankrupt national airlines.
She's good enough at her job, although she sometimes lets her perkiness get the better of her.
Her supervisor — not I — would probably also point out that her figure's about half a size too wide for the aisle in a regional jet.
The real problem, though, was neither her terminal perkiness nor her figure.
It was her cold.
On our way home on the last leg of a spring break getaway, we found ourselves in the back row of the plane. There was only one seat behind us: Ginger's.
It wasn't until we were settled in and taxiing toward a take-off that we noticed the cough. Then noticed it again. Then again.
Ginger, who had already introduced herself while instructing us all on how to buckle our seat belts and how to hold our seat cushions to our chest as a flotation device though our flight would go over no water larger than a wetland, should have been home in bed.
She was one sick puppy.
But before I could muster some sympathy, I had to worry about self-preservation.
Ginger was seated right behind my right shoulder.
I could literally feel the coughs, crashing like germ-filled waves on my arm. I imagined them like bad illustrations in a movie in high school health class, green and toxic with little skulls and crossbones on them.
This, I thought, is not going to be good.
Moderately dehydrated, exhausted from travel and a great vacation, I may as well have had a sign on my forehead reading, "Infections welcome here." I was the germ equivalent of fertile ground.
Things didn't improve a few minutes later when the soft drinks and pretzels were passed out by — you guessed it — Ginger.
Did I take some? Sure. Why not? The damage had been done by then, I figured.
Our plane made it home safely.
That's the good news.
The bad news is that Ginger's infection hit me nicely within the incubation period, about five days later when I woke up with a scratchy throat.
So far, I've been able to knock it down pretty quickly. At least I sound better than Ginger did, and I think I'm a less likely candidate for passing it on.
But, just in case, you probably should have been reading this column with rubber gloves on.
Sorry. (Cough.)[[In-content Ad]]
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