I'm gonna hold you anyway, and I'll do it without shaking

The next person who mentions the swine flu is probably going to condemn me to a permanent medical case of chronic eye-rolling. Like mad cow disease, like bird flu, and like the anthrax scare, the threat of swine flu doesn't strike the terror in my heart that it apparently does the rest of Americans. In this particular epidemic-in-progress, not only do the flu symptoms not significantly differ from regular-type flu (meaning that if you're not terribly old or young and in relatively good health, it's highly unlikely you're going to die from it), but as of this morning, only 40 cases had been found in the U.S. To give perspective to the more statistically inclined, that would be .0000001% of the population at large.

Of course, disease panics like these always conjure up a familiar sensation for me, one that has followed me (and probably Cathi) since elementary school, which can be roughly labeled, "I ain't afraid of no germs" or alternatively, "dirtier than thou." My mom has never claimed to be a clean freak. Cathi and I became intimately acquainted with the 10-second rule while most kids' parents were acclimating them to the smell of bleach. We grew up knowing that it was important to shower and wash our hands and brush our teeth and everything, but my sister and I were never full-fledged members of the Lysol generation. We are generally, I've noticed, less concerned with germs or catching colds in comparison to our sanitized peers.

Whether or not it has anything at all to do with this upbringing, I like to point out, whenever the subject comes up, that I hardly ever get sick. I usually irritatingly imply that the defenses I've built up by being exposed to small amounts of bacteria here and there are probably what allowed me to grow my lungs of steel, compared to the wimpy McCoughs-a-lots who insist on carrying pocket-sized antibacterial hand gel.

To be fair, though, if people like me existed during the Black Plague or the Influenza of 1910, we were surely the first to die for not heeding the proper precautionary measures. I think that my ambivalence is partially the product of the attitude so condemned in PSAs that "it can't happen to me." My eupeptic hubris is going to have to catch up with me sometime, and when it does, chances are I won't be wearing a medical mask.

Though you could also argue that my karma in this area has already been paid by the fact that in the last 15 years, without engaging in extreme motor sports or stunt doubling, I've broken three bones, had orthopedic surgery once, and gotten stitches five times.

Survivors are part turtle

About a month ago, emboldened by caffeine and inspired by Knuckle Down, I logged into my facebook profile, clicked the editing icon, and decisively changed my music preferences from "I hate talking about music" to "Ani DiFranco."

Due to my tendency to resist change once I've found something I like (a personality characteristic I associate with my dad, who to this day insists on buying the exact same brand of drafter's mechanical pencils that he used in college), "I hate talking about music" had been on my profile since its birth in 2006. I liked it both because it was accurate and because it let me avoid actually listing any bands. While I could have, theoretically, thought up a few artists that I might call my favorites, the prospect of listing them always made me feel uncomfortable, as if I could already physically feel the disdainful glares of hypothetical indie music snobs who would look at my list, politely but condescendingly critique it, and then casually voice their own preferences for more obscure bands.

Such epidemic snoot is why I really do hate talking to people about music, most of the time. I don't really appreciate having otherwise pleasant conversations distorted into weird competitions for implied aesthetic superiority.

The real problem is, I don't listen to music critically, and so I get annoyed and offended when people apply critical or technical standards to what is, to me, a purely subjective and emotional activity. This is in contrast to, say, novels, to which I unconsciously apply all those fun-ruining analytical strategies and about which I therefore, in combination with my subjective preferences, am capable of making informed judgments. I occasionally wade into the pretentious waters of literary snobbery. But my music taste is much more Hooters-esque: delightfully tacky, yet unrefined. While I naturally appreciate, say, the genius behind Ani's and Bright Eyes' lyrics, I also like P!nk. And the Backstreet Boys. Shut up. I like what I like because what I like has the capacity to wrench my gut or heart in that kind of intimately personal way that is otherwise reserved for weddings and roller coasters. To me, music conversations often feel comparable to someone asking me to explain why I love my boyfriend, and then proceeding to imply that I'm wrong.

I hate talking about music.

Fortunately, I have since started listening to Ani DiFranco, whom I'm more than happy to, publicly, musically and maybe even cosmically align myself with.

I think I communicate best now, the less I say

I think I became me sometime in middle school.

All of us are always in a state of constant change, evolving from moment to moment into a different Me than the Me even half an hour ago. All of us are also more or less the same person from moment to moment. Nevertheless, I'm convinced that it was right around 7th or 8th grade when the personality fragrant with the musk of Relatively Consistent Present Day Linda began to emerge. I think it was around then that I first gave any real thought to my own personality in that self-reflexive, out-of-body kind of way, and so now I can distinctly remember, at that point, having qualities that I still consider elemental to my sense of Lindaness. Right around 7th or 8th grade was also when I thought that sparkly, pastel blue eyeshadow was a stroke of fashion brilliance, though, so it wasn't an unqualified period of enlightenment.

And on that train of thought, one of the characteristics that I've persistently recognized in myself since becoming me is a perhaps unusual appreciation for silence. I like quiet. I'm not self-absorbed enough to think that this is a uniquely Linda trait, but unlike most of my friends, I rarely ever play music just to have it on in the background. I consider it a landmark of friendship when two people can sit in comfortable silence. It's not like I would consider becoming a Trappist monk or anything (the fact that the sex change would unequivocally expel me from the Catholic church notwithstanding), but I heartily appreciate it when my world isn't constantly cluttered with sound.

Plus, when you like things to be in the lower decibel ranges, you start to notice some of the other perks and qualities of quiet. As we've learned from countless love ballads, what a person doesn't say can be just as important as what she does. I've built up a great amount of respect for people who don't brag, who don't complain, who don't take the opportunity to gossip or retort, who abstain from talking just to hear themselves speak, who won't draw attention to themselves for the sake of collecting eyes. For whatever reason I see these kind of deliberate omissions as a demonstration of self-respect and confidence; I like the idea that a person doesn't need the constant vocal acknowledgement or validation of others to exist.

This particular set of values can, of course, also be seen as a rationalized defense mechanism for the chronically meek, bitter, shy, or awkward, but lemonade is lemonade.