The Column: Hoping the third COVID-19 booster's the charm
Boosted.
Again.
Third time’s a charm, I tell myself.
“Relax your arm,” said the kindly pharmacist at Stop & Shop in Woodbury.
While entirely proper, the order might as well have been, “Before we get started, please execute a forward roll followed by a front-entry cartwheel and standing side split.”
In the presence of health-related personnel — pretty much anyone in a smock, pharmacists, included — I am no more able to “relax” than levitate or recite the Pledge of Allegiance backward.
At the doctor for a checkup, I offer my arm to a nice young assistant dressed in blue scrubs who takes my blood pressure — passable but nothing to brag about.
“Heh-heh,” I always say. “Nervous. Been this way since I was a kid.”
“Oh, come on,” the assistant replies. “What are you nervous about?”
Was she kidding?
Has no one mentioned mortality to this pleasant young woman? Must I be the one to break the news?
“Well, you know, um, can never tell what the doctor’s going to hand you.”
“Don’t be silly. You look great …” There is a pause. “ … especially for your age.”
At Stop & Shop, I try to let my arm go limp — “better,” says the pharmacist, cheering me on.
Heartened, I enter a transcendent state and my shoulder sags as if I am a Mets reliever awaiting an MRI. I look the other way.
“Done,” said the pharmacist, applying a little bandage, my favorite part.
“Really? Wow, didn’t feel a thing.”
Whoever invented the skinny needle they are using for COVID-19 vaccination rates a Nobel Prize, if you ask me. Has there ever been an easier injection? Fellow fraidy-cats, you have no excuse. This is less scary than getting toenails clipped at the podiatrist.
Post-vax, I slept a lot, and my shoulder was in a slightly ornery mood, but nothing more than that. Hooray for Booster No. 3. The Big Bivalent. Omicron, away.
Bring on the world.
Well, maybe not all at one time.
My wife, Wink, and I have been careful to the max during the pandemic, and there’s no chance you will find us anytime soon in a mosh pit or space capsule.
But we’re going to try relaxing a little. Maybe an afternoon movie or early dinner. If there’s anything left of Key West after hurricane season — let’s hope — could be we’ll think about a few days in this favorite place. Been five years since we set records for baked oysters at Pepe’s or watched the sunset with friends at Mallory Square Dock or went over to Stock Island and spent time with the locals at Hogfish Bar & Grill.
“Not getting any younger,” says Wink.
“Tell me about it.”
Younger you don’t get. Older is easy.
A few days after Booster No. 3, I had a birthday.
“Fourscore, plus two,” as I prefer to describe the astounding number.
Actually, it was grand.
I went to Brooklyn with my daughters and their husbands. We parked on Atlantic Avenue and walked to Brooklyn Bridge Park, heavenly, believe me, you should go.
The day was perfect — warm breezes, blue skies — and the complete collection of humanity on parade, playing volleyball and soccer and posing for photos by the water with lower Manhattan as backdrop.
“Ah, the city,” said one of my daughters.
We ate good pizza from a wood-burning oven on the roof of a place called Fornino. The “young” folks — everything is relative — picked up the tab.
“We love you, Dad,” said my daughters, each pressing a cheek to mine.
At home, Wink made her famous Mexican casserole.
My younger son and his family came out from Queens. Missing only was our firstborn, who lives far away, but we fired up the laptop and he joined us via Zoom.
We drank sangria — just enough — and there was a chorus of “Happy Birthday” and a fancy cake and Ben & Jerry’s Peanut Butter Cup ice cream.
I’m grateful for it all — family, friends and for still being around.
And, you betcha’, for my pre-birthday present — Booster No. 3. Thanks to science, and progress, and the abiding hope of better days. Also sending a special word of appreciation to the good-hearted pharmacist at Stop & Shop who waited patiently until I — somehow — managed to relax.
