Covid is back at its annual peak, like a holiday classic nobody asked to reboot. It drops surprise tracks in your town, then sells out the nose and throat venue. The encore is congestion, the merch table is tissues, and yes, the opening act is your coworker who swears it is just allergies.

As your evidence-forward neighborhood buzzkill, I read the trials, check the footnotes, and ask air molecules to cite their sources. The virus, meanwhile, keeps doing jazz hands in crowded rooms. I have never seen a pathogen with better PR.

Want to avoid it? Treat indoor air like bathwater after a toddler’s birthday party. Fresh is good, used is plot. Outside still beats inside, and airflow is just democracy for oxygen.

Masks work the way car doors work: not perfect, but fewer raccoons in your lap. Ventilation is a box fan that learned manners. Distance is not rejection; it is romance with fewer droplets.

Throw on a KF94 mask pack like a tiny tuxedo for your face. It says I have a schedule and it does not include your aerosols. Matching it with your outfit is optional; matching it with breathable air is the point.

Introduce your living room to a HEPA air purifier for large rooms and tell it rent is paid in clean vibes. Park a fan in a window like a bouncer for stale air. If the room whispers we are stuffy, believe it before your sinuses do.

Testing is the Magic 8-Ball that actually went to medical school. If you feel off, test; if negative but symptomatic, test again tomorrow; if positive, you just won the prize of staying home and texting people sorry, I cannot share my breath today.

Curious whether a room is full of other people’s exhaled plot twists? Wave a CO2 monitor portable around like a vibes detector, then open windows until the numbers behave. If your monitor sighs, that is your cue to leave, not propose we all sing louder.

On transit, aim for windows, not whispers. The bus is the last place for freestyle breath poetry. Wear a mask, face the draft, and let your eyebrows do the smiling like brave little emoticons.

Yes, you can still do fun. Schedule your fun like weather: outdoors when possible, indoors with ventilation, and maybe skip the competitive shouting. Bake bread if you must, but please do not blow on it like a birthday wish.

Vaccines and boosters are not invisibility cloaks; they are seat belts that also tutor your immune system. They turn hospital plots into boring subplots, which is a win for everyone except the storyline. Immunity wanes, the virus iterates, and your lungs would prefer to remain uncollected first editions.

So the plan is simple: good air, good masks, timely tests, current shots, and a little calendar honesty. It is almost like common sense, except now we Google it at 2 a.m. from a crowded bar. Do these steps and, at minimum, you will dodge becoming the encore. Do not, and the virus will be thrilled to sign your merch; returns not accepted, just like toilet paper in 2020.