Going down in flames

I remember the flame-retardant polyester flannel pyjamas I used to wear: they were so stiff they practically didn't bend. I used to take off the shirt because it was too uncomfortable, chafing my tender pre-teen flesh. At least I didn't burn to death. Heck, I probably could have used the shirt pocket as an ashtray. Since it was the 1970s, that was probably the design goal. At that point, Phillip Morris was trying to figure out how to get every child in America puffing away on cancer sticks while lying in bed.

So now we can add flame retardants to the long list of things we should worry about. Thankfully I'm too old for infant immunizations, and I don't wear pyjamas. I can't help eyeing my nonstick pans with some suspicion -- I'm not getting rid of them, though I won't be huffing them anytime soon.

So far we have a culprit for cancer, hyperactivity and ADD, birth defects, low sperm counts, and depression. Now I'm waiting for the bad news on fabric softeners, which I'm hoping will provide me with a handy excuse for my lack of discipline.