This past Sunday, the husband and I got shot up full of Pfizer while Gloria Estefan's "Conga" played in the background. Or, as the husband likes to put it, we got our "Fauci ouchies." Because I'm not the only one in this duo who uses humor to combat tribulation.
When I first heard about the vaccine rollout in January, I thought, good, finally. But also, somewhat perversely, that was fast. Because I felt a little uneasy. What if this miracle drug made me sprout a third eye or something? It turned out that the husband felt the same, so we decided to wait to get it. I rationalized this decision by reminding myself that only people older than sixty-five were supposed to be getting it at this point anyway. But then, these last couple of weeks, I suddenly felt like we should get it as soon as possible. Maybe it was the reports of the new, more serious strains. Or even just the fear that they'd run out of vaccines. Probably it was both. But mostly it was my gut telling me that the husband's luck couldn't hold up forever.
As you know, I've been working from home since last March and have ventured out of the house only a handful of times to visit my parents, plus once to the office to fix my computer. The husband, on the other hand, has been working out in the world every day. He's a painter, which means that he's in and out of people's homes. This drove me crazy, especially when the pandemic first started. I tried to convince him to go on hiatus, but he was concerned that his business would dry up and never recover. Then a few months in, I was like, he's being careful, it's fine, we haven't caught it yet. Because I couldn't be angry and scared all the time and had to make some sort of peace with it.
So, a couple of weekends ago when I announced that I was starting to look into vaccination scheduling, he was surprised -- but not really. Deep down, we both knew that he was the one warier of the actual vaccine, whereas I was the one warier of rejoining civilization. Getting vaccinated would bring me one step closer to saying see ya to the recluse life to which I'd grown so accustomed, and that made me anxious. Still, my fear of contracting the coronavirus was bigger, and I wanted that shot. The husband knew that. So he agreed to get vaccinated, for me. I thought that was very heroic and romantic and, at the end of the day, just plain kind.
At first, I was overwhelmed by the scheduling logistics. I didn't even know if we'd get appointments, and on the first try, we didn't. By the second time I'd learned more about the ins and outs of the system and was able to secure us back-to-back slots for the following Sunday, bright and early, at the Atlantic City Convention Center. I felt like I'd won the lottery, or at the very least, Air Supply tickets. When Sunday rolled around, I was so glad that the husband and I were climbing into my Honda together. We always go to the dentist, dermatologist, and optometrist as a pair. Why should the vaccination of the century be any different?
I'm happy to report that the whole process ran like a well-oiled machine. (My car, not so much. After barely being driven for a year, it now sounds kind of clunky. But, as Chandler Bing would say, one ridiculous problem at a time.) The Atlantic City mega site is run by the National Guard, and they, along with the nurses, were so efficient and upbeat, which helped to make it all seem more normal. As did the selfie station on the way out. Its bright colors and snappy sayings really brought the carnival flair, befitting a vaccination site located in a city once known as America's Playground.
So, yeah. One down, one to go.
My only regret is that I didn't wear a snazzier mask.
Also, that I never got to see Air Supply.