IT'S IN YOUR HANDS
by Celia King
I’m not sure when my phobia started, but it was probably about forty years ago, after I had my first child, and my problem has steadily worsened ever since. Now I am a full blown compulsive hand-washer and believe I am almost at the peak of my obsession.
My sons are normal and I don’t know of anyone else in my family (or any other family) with this problem, so the habit is not inherited. However, as my husband was almost as driven as I was to wash his hands frequentiy, the disability is probabiy contagious. On the other hand my husband may have felt if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em when he realized what kind of a wife he had. I know he wasn’t quite as far gone because I remember having an argument with him one lunch time. Mark had picked up a banana from the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter and was enjoying his first bit of the partly peeled fruit when I noticed his danger.
"Mark, that banana has not been washed," I admonished him, before he could take a second bite.
"But my hands are clean and I’m not eating the skin," he replied. His tone implied I was going a bit too far, even for me.
"Yes, but your hands have touched that peel which has not been washed, and now you’ll be handling other food and the utensils," I retorted.
Mark was very patient with me and left to wash his hands as soon as he’d finished the banana. It must have been true love for him to have put up with. my behavior, and I was fortunate he became almost as obsessed with hand-washing as me. (One fool makes many?)
I believe the root of my problem is the fact that I see how people behave in public rest rooms. Many come out of the cubicle and leave without so much as a glance towards the wash-basin. Those that permit themselves to actually turn on the tap often give their hands no more than a lick and a promise which would make any red-blooded bacteria chuckle in glee. Why this fear of a good soaping and washing? It is not because of being in a hurry. I have noticed these same people spend time painstakingly applying another layer of mascara to their already overburdened eyelashes. A thorough hand-scrubbing would be so much more to their advantage. I imagine how these same people may be handling my groceries, vegetables and fruit. Is it any surprise I feel everything I take home should be thoroughly washed as well as my hands?
In view of today’s widespread anti-hand-cleansing, I have a regular procedure I follow when using a rest-room, and especially a public one. As I enter this place of lurking infections (incidentally I don’t know why it is known as a "rest-room" in America, for I feel anything but restful in one), I make sure I pick up a paper towel so that my hand does not come into contact with the lock in the cubicle. A clean piece of toilet tissue protects my hand while pressing the lever and another for exiting the toilet and turning on the tap and pulling the lever of the towel dispenser when necessary. Hot water is a rarity in most places these days, but I scrub my hands as thoroughly as possible, and pray I’ve avoided anything likely to cause infection. Next I use several paper towels to dry my hands well; none of your automatic dryers for me. I want to feel the impurities
being pushed and shoved off my hands. Why give the germs the pleasure of a massage and sauna under that warm air?
Do you think after all that performance I am about to touch the door handle to exit? Of course not. I make sure I am clutching a clean paper towel before touching that door handle—that very door handle those nonwashing toilet users have touched and probably contaminated. Now comes the perplexing question. Having left the rest room, how do I dispose of this paper towel? Rarely do I find a wastepaper basket outside of rest rooms.
If I’m in a restaurant and have noted this deficiency earlier on, I will drop the offending article on the floor before leaving the ladies room. I feel guilty about littering but what is the alternative? It makes my day when I see a paper towel already dropped in this manner. I then feel less alone in my dilemma. It signals that a conspirator has passed this way. As I enter the restaurant I glance at the other diners and wonder who is the other lady who would dare to flout convention for the important sake of hygiene. I would like to congratulate her. Maybe we could form a club. But alas we are usually secretive. It’s a solitary way to live as we most often fear exposure. Others do not understand our reasoning, so we keep silent as a rule.
Maybe we need a bold leader to come forward and make public our extreme distaste of non-washers, and also the problem of the lack of paper towel receptacles. Then we could come out of the closet. What a relief that would be! Until that enlightened day dawns, I vote we all drop those towels on the floor and make a huge pile. Maybe then the powers that be would catch on and provide a suitable container either inside or outside the rest room doors. Maybe we could have a celebration and make a bonfire. A new kind of bra-burning.
Oprah of TV fame has always been a great favorite of mine, but I recently became disenchanted. She spoke of how she uses paper towels so that her hands do not touch anything in a toilet. I applauded in glee as I heard her wise words. Then she ruined the whole thing and I lost all my admiration for her when she announced to the world, "But then I spoil it all as I’m forced to touch the door handle to get out of the rest room." I almost fell off my chair in disgust, and I used an expression I haven’t used in years. I shouted at the TV "Bloody fool!" At least the incident did some good, because since then I’m not a bit frustrated when I’m prevented from watching Oprah.
Oprah was way off the mark, but Mark wasn’t. My husband and I had entered a restaurant and greeted the two other couples we’d arranged to meet in the foyer. While waiting for our table Mark and I as usual left to wash our hands. I presently returned, but became concerned when the minutes ticked by but there was no sign of my husband. Our friend Ben offered "I’II go and see if Mark is O.K." The two men quickly returned, Ben with a broad grin on his friendly face, and Mark wearing a sheepish expression.
"Mark was just inside the door as I opened it," proclaimed Ben. "l swear he was waiting for someone to use the door so that he wouldn’t have to touch it." He laughed loudly.
Mark didn’t deny or admit to Ben’s revelation, but I was secretly elated. I hadn’t realized Mark had reached that level of agreement with my standards in hygiene. Now we were real soul-mates, and I had a partner to be proud of. We could indeed go on together hand-in-hand.
© Celia King, 1998.