Please Add Hand Shaking to My List of Neuroses

Over the last few years, touching things - door knobs, stair railings, and especially other people's hands - has become quite frightening, not necessarily in a Howard Hughes/Emma Pillsbury way. I will still touch things when the occasion arises. I just don't love doing it.

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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How I Got My Superhero Hearing

I am going to broach a rather disgusting subject this weekend - ear wax.

Before you cringe and say, "Oh gross," let me remind you - we all have it. I mean, when you think about it, ear wax could hold the key to world peace on account of it's probably one of the only things all humans have in common. (Oh great. Please don't send me e-mails about a rare disorder that stunts the production of ear wax.)

However, I have no illusions that I am going to solve the world's problems today. I am simply going to tell you about my ear wax. 

In March, I started to notice my ears were plugged up to the point that it was affecting my hearing. I couldn't sleep on my right side because my ear would pop all night. I had days at work that it seemed as though I was listening to my students through a tunnel. I had trouble hearing my alarm in the morning because my ears were so filled up after eight hours of sleep. My husband often had to yell at me so that I could hear him (although he would say that this is an ongoing issue - ear wax or sans ear wax).

I went to my doctor who took one look in my ears and referred me to an ENT. I waited until June to make the appointment because I didn't want to go into my King and I performances with a perforated ear drum. And as my doctor said when I inquired about this risk, "Any time you go digging around in your ear, there is always a chance . . ."

The last time I had my ears cleaned out was about ten years ago, so at least I'm not a frequent ear wax flier. That ENT actually showed me the wax he pulled out of my ears - kind of a dark yellowish-brown. Most of it was pretty hardened and crusty, it had been building up for so long. He has since retired.

This time, my new ENT was a little more discreet - no ear wax to preserve in a jar as a memento. He did take me step-by-step through the process, but he would position my head and tell me what he was going to do while he was doing it, before I had any time to protest or prepare myself.

After a few minutes of digging and scraping, the ear doctor said, "This last chunk of wax is too deep. I don't want to dig it out," he dripped a cold solution into my ear. "I'm going to suction this last bit out with some peroxide and vacuum. It will feel cold and might make you dizzy."

I felt an over-sized whooshing, suction cup attach itself to my ear. It was over in a few seconds.

"Whoa," I said, overwhelmed by the sudden increase in decibels surrounding me.

"I'll talk really softly so I don't scare you," the ENT said. "It's like walking into bright sunlight after being in a dark movie theater. It was almost as if you had been wearing ear plugs for the last few months."

I made some comment like, "Hopefully, I'll be good for another nine years."

"We'll reflect in a decade," he said with a chuckle.

Then, I was let loose in the world with my superpower hearing. I felt like Superman or something. In public places, I tried to reassure people that I wasn't tripping out every time I would cock my head to determine what was making that strange rustling sound on the carpet - "Oh, it's my feet!" - or that rubbing sound between my legs (that was a tricky one to explain away) - "Oh, it's my pants!"

The mouse on the computer sounded like a woodpecker when I clicked it. The blender sounded like a jack hammer when I made a smoothie. The shower sounded like I was standing under Niagara Falls. I kept turning the television down. I fell to the ground, clutching my ears screaming, "Noooooo! It's too much sound!" It was my pivotal moment, like in the movies when the heroine realizes her superhuman strength is also her curse.

"This means you have to start listening to Dan too," my brother said when I told him about my superhero powers.

I quickly found out that Dan was thinking the same thing.

"Oh good," he said. "You won't have to keep asking me, 'What?' every time I say something."

But I already figured I probably still would, partly to annoy him and partly because he mumbles anyway.

When Dan came home from work that night, he said something to me, and my response was, "What?"

"Can't you hear me? I thought you got your ears cleaned out?"

"I feel like I'm talking so loud!" I exclaimed, ignoring his question. "Do I always talk this loud?" 
 
Dan resigned himself to the fact that getting my ears cleaned out had not, in fact, made me a better listener.

"Yeah, usually," he said with a sigh.

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Stayin' Alive or Another One Bites the Dust?

This week, I re-certified in CPR and First-Aid. I realize that being CPR/First-Aid certified is not all that unusual, especially in my profession. In fact, as a music teacher who regularly works with students outside of school contract hours, I am required to take CPR classes. But remember, even though having one's CPR certification is commonplace in our society, I can still make a complete fool of myself in the process.

Two years ago, it was finally brought to my attention that, as a music teacher, I should keep my CPR certification current. (My last training had been at age fifteen when I could get extra credit for my sophomore health class.) I was involved in a community theater group soon after completing the CPR course, and I spent much of the production randomly tapping (fully conscious) people on the collarbone and yelling out, "Are you alright? I'm First-Aid certified. Do you need help?" I thought I was being hilarious. The jury is still out as to whether others thought the same.

I would also yell this across restaurant tables when a friend or family member started coughing after a piece of food "went down the wrong pipe." My husband, Dan, would typically react by kicking me under the table and saying, "If they can cough and talk, they can breathe," at which point, I would act as a cheerleader, "Good job! Keep coughing that junk up!" One time, I caught a flying piece of food right in the face.

If you have ever taken a CPR course, you probably know that chest compressions should happen at 100 beats per minute or (as seen on The Office) at the tempo of the Bee Gees' "Stayin' Alive." During class, our instructor played "Stayin' Alive" while we practiced our chest compressions.

"Decide if you're an optimist or a pessimist," the instructor said. "If you're an optimist, imagine 'Stayin' Alive.' If you're a pessimist, you can always sing Queen's 'Another One Bites the Dust.'"

After an eight-hour day of 100-beat-per-minute chest compressions, I had to ice my hand. I had bruises on my palms and between my thumb and index finger. I had never realized until my CPR classes that I have such bony hands and wrists.

That evening, Dan quizzed me for my written and practical tests the next morning.

"I felt like I couldn't breathe when we watched the 'Breathing Trouble' segment of the video," I told him. "And I swear I've had signs of a heart attack before."

Dan's response: (with a roll of the eyes) "You've never had a heart attack, and you don't have asthma or trouble breathing or anything like that. You run or do Zumba everyday."

"I could have a stroke, and you wouldn't even know. Sometimes it's just a sudden headache."

Dan's response: (with a roll of the eyes) "You won't have a stroke." 

"I could. The birth control I'm on raises your risk for blood clots, especially if you are a thirty-five year-old smoker."

Dan's response: (with a roll of the eyes) "You're not a smoker."

"But I'm thirty-five."

"Do you want me to quiz you or not?"

"Do you know we have black widows and brown recluses and rattlesnakes and scorpions around here?"

Dan's response: (with a roll of the eyes) Silence.

"I'm not doing outdoorsy stuff this summer by the way. Our instructor said the rattlesnakes and ticks will be bad because of the wet, mild spring."

Dan's response: (with a roll of the eyes) Silence.

Then I insisted on showing Dan the CPR steps I would have to reenact during my practical exam.

"The scene is safe! Are you okay?" I pounded on the floor. "Help! I need help! You! Call 911 and get an AED," I looked at the floor/imaginary person for ten seconds. "Victim isn't breathing. Beginning chest compressions."

Around 4:30 that morning, I woke up, punched Dan, and said, "I could be at risk for heart disease."

Dan's response: (probably with a roll of the eyes, but it was dark) "Has anyone in your family even ever died of heart disease?"

"My grandfather died of a heart attack."

"He was a smoker."

I didn't go back to sleep.

"You just have to fake it," the instructor said. "If you can fake authority, it goes a long way. The important thing is staying calm. That helps keep everyone else calm."

When I told Dan this, he said (with a sarcastic raise of the eyebrows), "And we all know that's what you do best - stay calm."

The next morning, I pumped myself full of caffeine and took my tests. I'm a great tester, but I am still a little worried about the practical application of it all.

If I ever had to administer CPR, would it be "Stayin' Alive" or "Another One Bites the Dust?" Comforting thought, isn't it?

A Day (or Two) in the Life of Turning Thirty-Five

My "Turning Thirty-Five" journal:

Monday, June 4 (One day to thirty-five)

10:10 a.m.
I go to an ENT to get my ears cleaned out because I haven't been able to hear properly for about three months. The doctor says it is almost like I've been walking around wearing ear plugs everyday. He is right. I feel like a super hero with extra-sensory powers now. Is a surplus in ear wax a byproduct of old age? Actually, I have been dealing with excessive ear wax since my early twenties, so I will say no. It's not a byproduct of old age, just something weird that happens to me.

11:00 a.m.
I drive over to Best Buy to pick up a present for Dan. Wait, isn't it my birthday tomorrow?

"I think I'll order myself the Game of Thrones DVD set for your birthday."

"You're buying yourself a present on my birthday?"

"Yes," he hesitates. "I hope you like the other present I got you."

"Yeah, me too," I grumble.

Secretly excited about the new Game of Thrones DVD though, I offer to pick it up for him after my ENT appointment.

"It's my birthday after all. Maybe I'll even watch an episode with you tonight."

3:00 p.m.
I can't find my flash drive, the same flash drive that backs up my school computer. My school computer is getting re-imaged this summer, so this flash drive is somewhat necessary. I call Dan and freak out a little. He helps me retrace my steps to no avail. I am pretty sure I dropped it on my way out to the car on the last day of school. I reluctantly decide to go into my classroom the next day, on my birthday.

I thought I was done with school.

6:00 p.m.
By the time you reach thirty-five, restaurants are the only things that make a big deal about your birthday. I've been receiving postcards offering free meals and desserts for a month now. It's like the promise of diabetes and obesity tied up in a pretty bow and delivered right to your mailbox.

"You got some birthday cards," Dan said as he sorted through our mail.

"Yeah, people are finally starting to remember."

"Your birthday's not until tomorrow. You can't get mad at people for forgetting your birthday before your birthday."

Of course nowadays, 340 Facebook friends are also guaranteed to remember your birthday. That's kind of awesome.

10:30 p.m.
Dan and I are almost asleep after having finished the first episode of Game of Thrones about a half-hour ago. We hear a loud bang and a bright light shines through our window.

"Becky," Dan calls to me from what we have coined the office-spying-window, "someone knocked over our mailbox!"

Indeed someone had. Now I wouldn't know who remembered my birthday after all. The post office will definitely not deliver our mail tomorrow with the mailbox in that state.

There is a car parked in front of our driveway, shining its headlights into our window. It looks as though a couple of men with a bicycle are hanging out on the sidewalk, next to our fallen mailbox, but it is hard to completely see what is going on.

"Should I go out there?" Dan whispers.

"No. Didn't that crime dog ever teach you? Never talk to strangers."

Tuesday, June 5 (Thirty-five arrives)

7:30 a.m.
One of our neighbors calls to tell us how to get our mailbox fixed. Dan and I go outside to assess the situation. We are surrounded by neighbors. We don't really know our neighbors because we are slightly antisocial. But they are really nice. One neighbor even offers to weld the box for us. So Dan dismantles the box and newspaper tube and leaves the base.

"Did you do this in a drunken stupor?" another neighbor (the one neighbor I actually know) teases me.

"I think someone must have been in a drunken stupor," I say.

The man with the bright headlights the night before drops by and talks to Dan. Apparently, some kid on a bicycle had run into our mailbox. The man with the bright headlights had stopped his car to help the kid and was afraid the kid might have had a concussion. We didn't ask if the kid was in a drunken stupor.

9:00 a.m.
I go to my school to look for my flash drive, hoping I just left it on my desk. I didn't. But my computer has not been re-imaged yet, so I back up everything onto another flash drive. Also, I remembered earlier that our P.E. teacher is holding Zumba classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays at the school this summer. I stay for Zumba. I also see several of my students who are attending summer school. And I realize I already miss my kids . . . a little bit.

2:00 p.m.
I spend my afternoon writing at Starbucks, drinking a free latte for my birthday.

6:00 p.m.
Dan takes me out for fondue. I want to wear a pretty, summery outfit so badly, but it is a windy and rainy fifty-degree day. I even had to turn on the heater in the house. I wear a summer outfit anyway and take a sweater and an umbrella with me.

"You're refusing to notice the cold, aren't you?" Dan asks as we drive to the restaurant.

 I turn the car thermostat up to seventy-five and put my feet, bare and in sandals, under the vent.

"It's my birthday! I can wear spaghetti straps if I want."

I have to wear my cardigan throughout our entire dinner.

8:00 p.m.
Our neighbor is in the rain, welding the base of our mailbox when we get home. Dan goes outside to help. He comes back in a while later, drenched.

"No one got electrocuted, right?" I ask.

That would have been a tragic end to my birthday.


 

Additional thoughts on turning thirty-five:

• In May, I realized I was feeling pretty sore after my King and I performances, a soreness I hadn't really encountered in my ten-plus years of doing theater. "I'm getting too old for this," I told the conductor, an almost-retired university professor. "You and me both," he said with a chuckle. 
• Of course, I was told by a local journalist that I looked too young to play Anna in The King and I. I assured her I wasn't, but I didn't tell her my actual age. 
• Dan and I have discovered that we can't remember our ages. We know we're in our thirties, but sometimes we forget which thirty. My father says, "It's easy for me to remember your age. I just add 30 to the age I will be in September." The trouble is I can't remember my father's age either. 
• Dan and I were downtown the other night. We lost our parking garage ticket and had to pay the daily rate, $12. Later that night, Dan lost his reading glasses. We were tired by 9 p.m.

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Decluttering Dan

"You're going to blog about this, aren't you? You'll exaggerate, and people will think our house is trashy and cluttered like a hoarder's house or something . . ." Dan threw a few receipts onto the dining room table, the same dining room table that I had declared paper-scrap-free just seconds before. "Our house isn't trashy, you know. Most houses are a lot worse than ours."

This was coming from a man who, during his bachelor pad years, "sorted" his clothes by throwing the dirty ones on the closet floor until laundry day.

Dan and I don't fight very often. Dan doesn't talk much which means he doesn't "talk back" much either. (It's nice having a quiet husband.) Besides, we're on the same page about most everything. But our one consistent source of contention comes down to organizing random papers - bills, receipts, junk mail, owners manuals, warranties, etc.

That's not to say that Dan isn't an organized person. What looks like mounds of scrap paper to the naked eye truly is some sort of system that he has worked out somewhere in his head but has failed to share with the rest of us. Even his "dirty-clothes-on-the-floor" approach had a kind of order-from-the-chaos feel to it. (Dan did have a laundry basket, by the way. It sat empty beside his piles of clothes.)

When Dan and I first started dating, his kitchen table was covered with piles of papers.

"I still need to look through them," he would mumble.

But I wasn't worried. I just figured I would just introduce him to my foolproof filing system if we ever ended up together for eternity, and that he would acclimate quite well, as he had done when I suggested he use the empty laundry basket as a dirty clothes holder.

Throughout our eight years of marriage though, our dining room table has rarely been cleared off. And here is the problem with using our dining room table as a filing cabinet. It is the first thing people see when they enter our house. It is like the living room that my brother and I weren't really allowed to "live in" when we were growing up. We could play in the family room or the rec room, but the living room was the room that would serve as the spread for InStyle magazine if my mother ever became a bestselling author. (Okay, now you understand about my background and about why piles of stuff send me into a neurotic frenzy.)

I tried making Dan a to-do file. It sits by my to-do file bursting at the seams with papers and receipts, some of which are two or three years old. I touched it the other day, and a CD entitled "Ubuntu 11.10 Desktop 32-bit" fell out.

"I still need to look through that," Dan muttered when I asked.

Sometimes the piles of papers are joined by the contents of Dan's pockets - a cell phone, a wallet, car keys, a pair of sunglasses, a work badge, spare change, a stick of gum, and whatever else shows up in men's pockets these days. I'd rather not know.

Here is the conversation that ensues when I attempt to help Dan come up with a new system:

Dan: "Did you move my pile again?"

Me: "Yes, it's in the cedar box in the kitchen."

Dan: "I won't remember to look for it there."

Me: "You won't remember to grab your keys before you drive your car?"

Dan: "There's too much stuff in that box. I'll get confused."

Me: "You're that easily confused? By a couple of gift cards and prescription receipts? Anyone walking by our house can see your wallet, cell phone, iPod, and car keys sitting on the table. You want to invite thieves over for dinner or what?"

Dan: "And where are my piles of papers? I still need to look through them."

Me: "You mean the owners' manual for the TV we bought six months ago? They are also in the brown box, along with the remote control from the old TV that you must have been using as a paper weight since we obviously have no use for it anymore."

Dan: "See. I forgot to go through them because you hid them. When they sit on our dining room table, it helps me remember to go through them."

Me: "So write it on the whiteboard on the fridge."

 Dan: "I don't look at the whiteboard."

Me: "I do. I'll help you remember. Believe me. I will help you."

It struck me that this conversation was similar to one I had heard many times as a child - about my father's compost pile. My mother thought it was gross. My father, an avid gardener, thought it was necessary. (Personally, as a lover of all things organic, I am quite fond of my compost pile.) Dan and I were turning into my parents.

Needless to say, the table is clear for now. There is a big note on the whiteboard that reads, "Dan's filing" under our to-do list. I wonder how long it will take for those piles of papers to sneak their way back onto that dining room table.

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