Photo by cottonbro

Okay, okay, before you start judging me, let me explain.

We are husband and wife, sure, but we live in entirely different worlds. It’s riskier for me.

I’m in self-isolation, 71, a cancer survivor with radiation and hormone therapy in my treatment history. Immune system?  Compromised, naturally. So, I spend my days searching the web for, “How to decontaminate your home against coronavirus.”

She’s 51, a pharmacy tech working in a warehouse filling prescriptions, an part of the essential workforce that keeps our nation healthy. Good for her and for our society. I’m proud of her. But surely, I thought, she mingles with asymptomatic people. And she could easily be carrying home their germs.

That’s where Lysol comes into the picture.

One day, I was spraying down the bathroom and didn’t hear her come in. “Ron!” she called cheerfully, as I wheeled around in mid-spray. The pungent mist engulfed her and made her gag. Mortified, I apologized profusely and took her outside to gulp down some fresh air.

Then, taking no chances, I asked her pretty please to wash her hands for 21 seconds and join me in the living room for some social distancing.

That gave me enough time to don the new hazmat suit I had secretly  ordered through Amazon — mask, gloves, the whole works.

“Did you clean really, really well under your nails, Sweetie?” I called out.

I thought she would be impressed by my new get-up, so you can imagine how I felt when she emerged, dressed up in her own hazmat suit.

Wait, a minute…did I detect a can of Lysol hidden under her garment?

Looked like a stand-off in the Cooper household!

© Ron Cooper and Tanya Cooper

For another take on COVID-19, see “Dear Hoarders.”