MDS Airplane Survivor

Home again. Home again, home again, home again, home. And, another airplane flight survived.

It's hard for a life-long beard picker (or, to be more kind in our nomenclature, let's say "beard stroker") to keep his hands away from his face for five hours—even if the airlines provides 40 movie choices, 150 CD selections, and a slew of video games and TV shows for distraction.

But, like a pair of mantras, the MDS advisories repeated in my head as the Grand Canyon, Rocky Mountains, Midwest farmlands and Smokies passed below us.

• Avoid sick people.
• Purell your hands often.
• Don't touch that!

And, so the daughter and I passed across the country apparently without incident. That's to say, at least, I didn't awake this morning with any apparent illness.

Still, I don't like being in airplanes any more. Everywhere I look is a surface that blasts the "Don't touch that!" mantra at me. Every sneeze and cough within the flying tube carries overly ominous menace.

If I work at it, I could readily become a full-fledged hypochondriacal paranoiac who's ready to take up residence in a sterilized cube.

Or, I suppose, it might be more rational to relax and just keep flying.

Or, maybe I could borrow Dorothy's ruby slippers, and intone her mantra. There's no place like home . . .

It worked for her.