My doctor ordered me to get a Covid test Friday. One of those âabundance of cautionâ things.
I didnât have to get out of my car. A suitably garbed nurse, who introduced herself as Angie, met me in the parking lot. She warned me that it would be âextremely uncomfortableâ and not to jerk away. Turned out, it wasnât all that uncomfortable. Angie knew her onions.
It would be nice to have the results by now, but I am told that because of a glut in testing, it may take five days.
Humph. I could be dead in five days. So much for the abundance of caution.
I am pretty sure I wonât be. I am pretty sure itâs a bad cold, which I am sharing with the man of the house, who has been feeling under the weather all week. He has high blood pressure controlled by meds, and I have a little problem with my ticker, although it has responded well to treatment. Still, they are both underlying conditions, as they say. And we are both 78, and that in itself is an underlying condition.
We have been carefulârarely going out, wearing double masks when we do, scowling and keeping our distance from the kind of Walmart shoppers who dangle their masks under their noses.
So I find myself irritated that Donald Trump was airlifted to a hospital suite just a day after getting a test that produced immediate results. After mocking people like me for being careful, he is getting state-of-the-art treatment, while I am still hobbling by on Mucinex.
Thereâs a scene that keeps replaying in my head: that clump of Trump adult children strutting into the debate Tuesday, masked noses in the air; plopping their privileged backsides into the seats reserved for them in front, and then removing their masks, despite having agreed to rules requiring that they wear them.
The Trumps regard themselves above ordinary rules, reminding the scholarly on Twitter of of an F.Scott Fitzgerald quote, âThey were careless people, they smashed up things & creatures & then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness or whatever it was that kept them together,& let other people clean up the mess they had made.â
But I prefer the old schoolyard insult: âThey think their farts smell like roses.â
Speaking of roses, at least eight people contracted it the previous Fridayâs White House Rose Garden nomination gathering, whereâsurprise!âalmost no one wore masks.
And eleven people at the debate have tested positive.
I hope the Walmart shoppers are taking note.