I thought I was going to die this morning.
I thought I was in jail, about to get shanked.
I’m on the subway standing next to this big, black woman with these huge shades on, covering what I thought was the remnants of a black eye. She was chewing like a cow the entire time, only she kept making this weird clicking noise, like she had a mouth full of thumbtacks. Click-click-click. Clllllllick. I had no idea what it was. But I typed this after I got off the train, so, as you can tell, I am alive and well. I departed the train, and I presume she went on spinning that razor blade in her mouth.
I am also a germophobe. How does that tie into this story? Well, I’ll tell you. It all began when I heard Howard Stern interview Howie Mandel on his radio show, oh, maybe close to 10 years ago. Both are notorious germophobes, and I couldn’t believe the scenarios and stories they were discussing. But shoot, everything I heard them say was absolutely right! And disturbing. How door handles in public bathrooms are disgusting because men never wash their hands. They hold their dicks to pee and then just walk right out!
They discussed their entire public bathroom routine: How they first make sure they have enough paper towels at the ready, which means they dispense the appropriate length before they wash. Then they turn on the faucet and wash their hands with soap and water. Doesn’t matter if the faucets are filled with germs, in their estimation, because they are about to wash those hands that just touched the diseased faucet anyway. But after that they don’t touch a thing. They dry their hands with the paper towel they previously laid out and then use that towel to turn off the sink and open the door to the restroom.
Some people might think this is obsessive. I think it’s genius! Changed my public-bathroom-going life. And I’ve done this routine from that day forward. Shit, I don’t leave the house with out Purell. I shoulda bought stock in Johnson & Johnson!
So anyway, I’m on the subway this morning and I didn’t get my customary spot with my back against the side door of the car, the one that leads from train to train. I like that spot best because then I don’t have to touch anything in there; I don’t need to hold on for balance with my back supported. But, unfortunately, I had to stand in the middle and hold onto one of the railings. When I do this I never move my hand, never switch hands, and try very carefully not to touch a thing, not even my Kindle that I hold in the other hand. And you know how the bars are metal and how at first touch they are cool but the longer you hold them they get warmer, because of the heat from your palms? Well, the warmness is gross. Mine is ok, but everyone else’s is just fucking gross. I never move my hand because I never want to touch any other part of the bar that may have been touched by anyone else.
Well, this woman, who may or may not have just come from Rikers, kept infringing on my bar-holding territory. She kept moving her hand in such a way that I was forced to move mine. Over and over! I had no choice but to constantly degrip and regrip the bar, so as to avoid any bodily contact with her. And every single damn time I moved my hand I wound up in her warm spot. (That is NO euphemism for sex, I’m telling you now!). It’s just the grossest thing ever, having to hold onto the same spot someone just vacated. It’s warm, sweaty, probably filled with grease and boogers and sneeze residue. Ugh! I’ve now washed my hands and Purell’d several times at work … and I still feel like there’s an invisible coating of crap on my hand.
I know I’m nuts. No need to remind me.
You know you are n...oh, no need to remind you.
ReplyDeleteI've been there, but what always brings me back is the thought that no one ever got sick or died from touching a handle. Likewise, if you used to touch handles all the time and you are still alive, then something that Howard and Howie said doesn't suddenly make touching things more dangerous.
But as for the hand warmth thing, I feel ya. There is something nasty about it. I feel the same way about seats. Ever sit on a seat that is still warm from the last person's ass. DISGUSTING. And that's through pants and, presumably, underwear.