The Germ Patrol

An "anonymous" note recently appeared in our office kitchen today:

"Good Peoples,
When you don't put the ice scoop back in its handy-dandy holder, it gets buried beneath the ice, and then I have to dig it out with my hands. I may or may not have recently wiped my nose."

It's succinct, it's edgy. I'm pretty sure everyone will know it was me who wrote it, because it's got that special je ne sais quois style to it that my colleagues recognize by now as mine, but I don't care. When you have only three degrees of separation between yourself and every school-age child in the greater Washington metropolitan area, you start to get a little vigilant about germs. I refuse to spend half the year battling cold after cold.

When I do get sick, as any former roommate of mine will gleefully tell you, I tend to walk around with a Kleenex stuffed up my nose. (I'm a way classy dame.) I just can't be bothered blowing my nose all day long. What a futile activity. Sometimes I think that all the moisture in my skin goes to produce snot, because I've got plenty of that when I'm sick. If my parched skin, chapped red nose, and rheumy eyes don't clue you in that I'm suffering dreadfully, I'm not beyond making sure I look the part. This involves the aforementioned Kleenex, along with a neglect of basic hygiene and a uniform of pajamas, fuzzy slippers, and my roommate's lobster hat. If I'm going to look bad, I'm going to look really bad!

But I'd like to retire the lobster hat this year. So with cold and flu season approaching, I have taken to opening doors with my hips, turning light switches on and off with my elbows, and washing my hands compulsively.

This is what city life will do to you. I used to be laid back.