In-school flu vaccination clinics at Pond Gap Elementary School. Knox County Health Department
One of my college professors epitomized the word “germaphobe.”
He always turned door knobs with a clutched handkerchief, never bare-handed. If anyone in class dared cough twice, the miscreant was summarily dispatched to a chair at the door, lest he spew contagion throughout the room. And once, when the campus was rife with colds, he lectured a full 45 minutes facing the blackboard. I was there when all this happened.
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Back then, I considered his behavior exceedingly odd. I’d never been described as freakishly fastidious, but neither did I lead a life of grime like Pig-Pen in “Peanuts.”
(Well, yes, there was the time Mary Ann caught me eating a sandwich while cleaning a limit of ducks. And the morning a doctor sat on my hospital bed, after my second unfortunate incident with creek water ingestion, and calmly said, “Let’s discuss your Third World habits.” But those are stories for another day.)
Funny how attitudes evolve. As in 180 degrees.
It wasn’t long before I found myself routinely avoiding people who displayed so much as a scintilla of sickness — and staying home if the “sick-ee” was me.
And grasping public door knobs and communal coffee pot handles with a paper towel.
And coughing into my elbow instead of the palm of my hand.
And thoroughly scrubbing my mitts several times daily with soap and water.
And stocking my vehicles, coat pockets, satchels and drawers with sanitizer, then dousing so often my hands took on the mantle of parchment.
These efforts spiked significantly in 2016 when I became seriously ill with a symptomless autoimmune liver disorder that, thank God, was caught in the nick of time during a routine physical. Everything’s fine now, yet the four Rx pills I swallow daily — and probably will the rest of my life — lower my body’s natural immunity to germs, bugs and related cooties.
Thus, the news that 2018 will likely be a bad year for influenza grabbed me like a steel-jawed trap. According to the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, reports of flu have “increased sharply” in Knoxville and around the country.
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Since nobody can predict what strain of flu will strike, vaccines are made in advance by educated guesstimation. Sometimes inoculations provide ample protection. Sometimes not. The batch for 2018 seems to be only in the 10-33 percent effective range. Still glad I took my shot, though; even 10 percent beats zero.
In the meantime, Felix Unger here plans to continue his germaphobic regimen. No doubt his ol’ prof would be proud.
Oh, and a word to investors: The way I go through Purell, consider buying shares in the company that makes it.
Sam Venable’s column appears Sunday and Tuesday. Contact him at sam.venable@outlook.com.