There are, believe it or not, still some places on this globe of ours that have not fully ascended the developmental ladder to join our vaunted nation on what must surely be the topmost rung.

Quite possibly the most tangible and least comfortable illustration of this disparity is that setting out upon a course of travel to some of these forsaken spots entails the subjecting of one’s self to the sting of myriad needles, their sole purpose being inoculation against beastly persistent and rampantly debilitating illnesses which can strike down the incautious first-world voyager simply because of a serum deficiency in said privileged sojourner’s blood.

While I, and many like myself, willingly lay down hundreds of greenbacks to be pierced thousands of times by a needle in the interest of tattooing, the less voluntary variety of being stuck causes us grief and subjects us to the critical gaze of others.

To get on with my tale then, I have recently had "my shots" brought current with the level expected in one nearing the close of her third decade of life. For one who has not bothered to go to a doctor for nearly a decade, such a visit can be a rude awakening -- especially when the inaugural visit to the physician is accompanied by a list of shots required by law that no normal general practitioner could possibly have on hand. Not only was I reminded of the only vaguely recalled discomfort of a tetanus shot, but I actually had the rare pleasure of utterly discomfiting a doctor and nurse who looked at me with general discombobulation, shook their heads and admitted, “We can’t do these.”

So, it was off to the travel immunization clinic (which masquerades under the name of "occupational therapy clinic" but I leave all inferences thereunto up to my esteemed readership) to beg for such esoteric treatments as the course of shots required as prophylaxis against Japanese Encephalitis (which does not pose a threat to travelers to its eponymous island nation), Hepatitis -- both A and B -- and typhoid. Yes, kids, as one of my distinguished colleagues remarked, “Typhoid. How deliciously late-19th century.”

On one hand, I can be considered among the lucky who will survive a freak outbreak of a long-dormant plague or pestilence. On the other hand, I must maintain vigilance that the next fearsome pandemic does not contain any of the remaining microorganisms against which I have no immunity. These latter include but are not limited to: anthrax, smallpox, monkeypox or any other non-avian pox, bird flu, Spanish flu, St. Vitus Dance, cooties, consumption, or Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy.

No, I am at as much risk as the rest of the world should any of these illnesses strike, relying only upon my wit, good looks, and winning personality. However, for the next great wave of typhoid, I am ready… now, if only there was a shot for pathological punctuality.