As a baby and a toddler, I apparently had some sort of oral fixation and would put everything in my mouth, no matter where it had been or what it had touched. I especially favored rubbery objects (let's not read anything into that, please) like Barbie feet. Those times aren't completely gone either. Every once in a while, I will find myself absentmindedly chewing on a pen or holding a paper clip between my teeth. Then I realize how disgusting this is, and I am overcome with the sudden urge to wash my mouth out with soap.
I suppose it is poetic justice then that my profession requires me to hold the hands of students almost everyday. Needless to say, I have hand sanitizer on my desk, and I do use this between every class.
One time, I was collecting sitting dots from my kindergartners. I reached out my hand to take one little boy's dot, and he sneezed on my hand. The kindergarten teacher and I stood staring - totally grossed out - at each other for a moment, my hand frozen in the air.
"Do you want to wash while I collect the dots?" the teacher asked me finally.
I took her up on that offer right away.
That brings me to hand washing. I do what the signs hanging in all the public restrooms tell me: 20 seconds of scrubbing, wash under the nails, time yourself by singing "Happy Birthday" or "The Alphabet Song." Then I dry my hands and use the paper towel to open the door. If the door pushes out and does not require touching a handle or a knob, I hold my hands up as I exit like I'm going into surgery.
This all seems pretty intuitive to me. But as I was washing my hands in this manner at a rest stop bathroom, a woman, who had been gently encouraging her daughter to hurry along, turned her attention to me.
"You're a thorough hand washer," she said, "just like my daughter."
"Gotta get through the ABCs!" I said with a laugh.
When I didn't get a response, I mumbled, "That's what we teach the kids at school . . ."
Due to my husband's and my lack of friends and slightly antisocial behavior, we can get away with avoiding hand shaking almost everywhere. (Dan, by the way, is not afraid of germs, just people.)
However, there is one exception - church. In fact, our church has a designated time to walk around the pews and interact with others by shaking hands. This is supposed to make people feel super welcome. Instead, it makes me feel as though I need to take a hot shower.
Now don't get me wrong. I don't think the people at my church are dirty. In fact, I really worry, as I surreptitiously wipe my hands down with the sanitizer I carry in my purse, that all of the elderly people in our congregation will think that I'm some kind of obsessive ageist. But honestly, I am reluctant to shake anyone's hand. It's equal opportunity germ-a-phobia with me.
On Father's Day, Dan and I drove to Twin Falls that morning to attend church with my dad. We were running a little late, not having made the 120-mile trek as quickly as usual.
"Maybe we won't have to shake hands with anyone," Dan said.
As it turned out, this particular church didn't do that.
Last Sunday, I followed Dan as he quickly darted out of church. He was avoiding people. I was avoiding hands.
"You're a germ-a-phobe, and I'm a people-a-phobe," he observed. "We make a good team."
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