This morning, after I dropped Aitch at his preschool classroom, I walked by another class where the teacher was instructing the children on how to cover their mouths when they cough. They now teach the kids to cough into the crooks of their elbows, rather than into their hands, to prevent the spread of germs by little fingers.

Although the war on germs seems, to the parent of a preschooler, every bit as futile as that other war in which we are engaged, I have to admit that this is ingenious, and it makes the practice of coughing into your hand seem like an act of bioterrorism.

We discussed this during Thanksgiving dinner, and we were trying to imagine a future where adults walked around coughing into their arms. It seems like the kind of detail someone would make up for a science-fiction novel, one of those twists of civilization that differentiates one society from another for no good reason.

We figured that years from now, coughing into one’s hands will be one of those habits that differentiates old geezers from the younger generation.  It will seem as uncouth as spitting on the floor or openly proclaiming racism.  “Grandpa!  Would you PLEASE cover your mouth with your ARM when you cough!  I swear, he’s getting more senile every minute.”