A shot in the arm | Lisa Scottoline

I’m so happy there are vaccines.

But at this rate, I expect to get one in 2030.

Meanwhile, I don’t even know where I can get a vaccine.

I looked online, searching under, What’s a girl gotta do to get a vaccine around here?

It didn’t say.

By the way, this column is to make you laugh, not inform you.

Keep your sense of humor, going forward.

You’re going to need it.

They say laughter is the best medicine.

Which is completely untrue.

Medicine is the best medicine.

Laughter got us where we are.

Bottom line, I want a vaccine as soon as possible. In fact, I want two, or four. I heard they’re small.

Maybe they have fun size, like Snickers.

If that’s all I can get, I’ll take it.

Like an appetizer vaccine.

The entrée vaccine would protect 97%, but the appetizer would protect 50%.

Is half a vaccine better than none?

Which half of my body would I save, top or bottom?

You know the answer.

The only action is in the top half.

I’m dead below the waist.

Anyway, the thing about the vaccine is that a bunch of geniuses developed several of them.

Way to go, geniuses!

But then nobody figured out how to get the vaccine into people’s arms.

I can’t criticize this thinking because I do it all the time. For example, I fantasize about winning the lottery, but I never buy a ticket.

This is a perfect analogy.

Because at this point, me getting a vaccination anytime soon would be the equivalent of winning the lottery.

And the Powerball has risen to $30393838872929292929292, so the line to buy a lottery ticket is as long as the line to get vaccinated.

Which line would you choose?

Your money or your life?

I’d take the money.

If I won the lottery, I’d bribe the people in the vaccine line to let me move up.

And I’d still have $29028273637393927711992 left.

I know some people have doubts about the vaccine, but I don’t. People way smarter than I am say it’s a good thing, and I believe them. If they told me I could vaccinate myself with tomato sauce, I’d give it a shot.

Then I’d inject some spaghetti.

I didn’t do the bleach injection because even I knew that was crazy.

Also, I didn’t have any bleach in the house.

I don’t care that much about laundry.

It’s all I can do to keep myself in toilet paper.

Lisa Quarantine is hitting an all-time low in personal grooming.

So I’m going to get in line for the vaccine. Unfortunately, there will be

9882923399383822822929229229 people ahead of me.

Maybe I’ll bring a beach chair. Also a book. Or several books. Or a set of encyclopedias.

Maybe even a TV and an umbrella. Or a tent. And a house.

And some food. Lots of food. Or a grocery store.

Maybe I can barter the food to move farther up in the line, like to 3938376463993982773944903.

I wonder if you pick a number, like at the DMV.

If so, I would suggest you pick one ASAP.

And go back to the line in four years.

The doctor’s ready for you now.

Actually I don’t care if it’s a doctor who vaccinates me.

I don’t need a nurse, either.

All I want is somebody with aim.

They don’t even have to hit my arm. All they have to do is reach my body. It’ll be like in the pin-the-tail-on-the-middle-aged-woman.

The good news is that I’m 65.

For once, that’s good news.

And for more good news, I’m about to highlight my hair to hide the gray.

Now I won’t look a day over 63.

In my world, bleach is for roots, not laundry.

In any event, being 65 is good at vaccination time, since I’m evidently Phase 1B, which is better than being Phase 84737362722828Z.

Unfortunately, there are still 0398383383339473663384764645674 65-year-olds before me.

That’s a lot of 65-year-olds.

I may have to kick a cane or two.

Just kidding.

Recently I heard people discussing the relative merits of one vaccine over the other.

Already there are Pfizer people and Moderna people.

Me, I’m not picky about my vaccine.

I don’t care who makes it, what it tastes like, or what color it comes in.

I have hope, and I’m ready.

Everybody, get in line.

Behind me.

Look for Lisa’s first historical novel, “Eternal,” coming on March 23. Also look for Francesca’s debut novel, “Ghosts of Harvard,” on sale now.