I’m getting a bit more anxious every day as I hear the experts talk about protecting the most vulnerable from COVID-19. My age and compromised immune system, due to treatment for cancer, put me dead (no pun intended) center in that group. My concern is that protecting me will evolve into isolating me and inevitably setting me adrift on that mythical ice floe where I can float off into the sunset.
Just in case, I’m setting out my long johns, a thermos for something warm to drink with a last shot of Irish whiskey, and maybe a deck chair so my butt doesn’t have to sit on that chilly surface. My only hope is that with ice sheets receding I might be able to make a run for it while the Protection Patrol is searching for a suitable floe that would support my ample weight.
Well, I’ve got to sign off for now. There’s someone knocking on my front door, and I see an ice truck parked in my driveway. Hmmm, wonder if my wife is planning a party for me?