I Am Not a Squeam, But I Am Squeamish

I have never, even when I was a child or a romantic adolescent, longed for the days of yesteryear.
I am simply incapable of yearning for a period in history when I would be deprived of  any of the comforts with which I grew up.

Forget the big thing, antibiotics, long distance communication in real time, suffrage.

I would be miserable deprived of hair conditioner or fitted sheets or individually wrapped American cheese singles or bug spray or ice cubes.
(We live in a golden age, no?)
Anyway, I am in awe of the easy familiarity with which our ancestors dealt with other species and life and death in the Animal Kingdom.

Yes, Blanche, we have rats in the garage.
I shudder doing the wash, I shudder getting canned goods from the pantry, and I shudder at the smell of whatever has died in the wall.
Himself is made of sterner stuff, he is after all a hick.

Me?
The Silent Squeam.