Following the lead of the NFL and NBA, I have decided to upgrade my health and safety protocols. Fortunately, I was able to do this unilaterally because I represented both sides of the negotiation, which was not a conflict, though perhaps a potential psychiatric case study.

First, I initiated periodic self-testing. Every half hour I ask myself how I feel.

Next, I cancelled all international travel. Well, not all (though I might if I could), just my own.

And, though it wasn’t part of my original plan, I beta-tested the even stricter precaution of not leaving my home at all, the inspiration for this being brought about, not by any CDC guidelines, but by the fact that I couldn’t find my keys.

A couple hours later, having crawled through six rooms on my hands and knees, with flashlight in hand, and suffered through a humiliating investigation of my garbage, which fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, had been piling up since well before the keys disappeared, I was about to abandon all hope, as if I were entering the gates of an even worse hell, when, in a moment of sheer desperation, I peeked underneath the pillow on my bed, the last place I would have, and had, thought to look, much like when the police searched the rocker panels used to hide the drugs in The French Connection, and practically fainted from disbelief upon discovering that that was, in fact, were the elusive objects had chosen to hide from me, causing me to consider the possibility that I had put them there, while asleep, in an unconscious effort to restrict my movements in the Age of Omicron (not to be confused with that other supervillain sequel, Age of Ultron).