I have decided that I cannot keep this secret any longer. I feel like I am betraying my fellow man or rather men.
Today was the last straw. It was the last time I could keep quiet about this. It was the last time I was going to enable others to get away with this. It's about guys... in the bathroom... after they go. MOST of them (us) don't wash their hands. Not a bit. No bee-lining to the sink post urinal. Just out the door. Pee, tuck, zip and out the door. I do. I always do.
This is hazardous to the public. It's germ warfare. Germs, I am told, will seek out and destroy you.
But I am not to be blamed entirely for such paranoia. Oprah started it. She was the one who told me I should wash my hands and sing “Happy Birthday” as the length of that song was how long I should wash them. When I am alone, I sing it loud and proud. When others are in the bathroom, I mouth the words. If someone is watching me (usually at department store bathrooms) I just think the lyrics in my head.
Oprah also made me afraid of doorknobs. This makes me question why ALL bathrooms have a door that opens to the inside. This means that you always have to touch the door handle AFTER you have done your thing. And now, why even bother washing hands when that evil doorknob is already tainted with enough germs to send Louis Pasteur into a tizzy.
There are ways to get around this. You use the paper towel to cover the door handle when you exit. But we are in a day and age of hand dryer machines. So what do you do then? Wait for someone to come in? I will usually use the cuff of my sleeve. Or, if the sink is right near the door, I open, wedge foot in door, lean over, wash hands and lean even further over to dry them... this is ofcourse ridiculous.
Ok, reality check. I am not THAT freaky with germs. However, it makes for a good blog. But I will attest to slathering my hands in Purell, I will admit to using a paper towel to assure a sanitary exit. And when I open the door, I will try to toss the paper towel in the waste can that is always as far away from the door as possible. Most times I miss. And you know what? I leave it on the floor. Because if I go in to retrieve it, I have to start all over again. McDonalds actually has a teeny little tissure dispensor right by the bathroom door for the soul purpouse of grabbing a teeny tissue to use with the door handle. Isn't that thoughtful?
So, yeah, guys don't wash their hands. Lot's of 'em.
So think about that the next time you do something socially required and shake someones hand. Think about the fecal matter that is pretty much EVERYWHERE and on EVERYTHING.
It's a conspiracy.
On a side note, I shall tell a tale from my College days.
There was a girl in my class.
I will not reveal her name. Let's just say her name was Katie.
Anyway, Katie was what one might call, “prissy.” She was the Patty Simcox, the goodie two shoes of the class. Her dorm suite mate was the exact opposite. She was boyish, rough around the edges. What one might call, a “stage management student.” We shall call her Terry.
Well, Terry had a bad habit of not flushing the toilet. This incensed Katie. During finals week, it got worse... nerves were on edge and the one last time that Katie came into the bathroom to see that the toilet had not been flushed, well, she just flipped out. She started knocking on her Terry's door. Bang, bang, bang... calling her suite mates name out in her shrill prissy voice. “Terry... TERRY!!!” Bang, bang, bang...
The door opened. Tired eyed Terry stared at her. “What?” She said. It was early in the morning. Katie, feet planted firmly, looked Terry in the eyes and said with the exasperation only a prissy on edge Senior musical theatre student could muster...
“Terry... you go, you wipe, you flush, you wash your hands... that's the whole deal!”
The next thing Katie knew, she was flattened, in the bathtub, lying upon the crumpled drying rack that was now kindling wood. And Terry, slammed her door.
See? People afraid of germs... no respect.