I think I’ve mentioned here a couple thousand times or two that I’m a germaphobe. If you know me personally, you would most definitely say that hand sanitizer is the one item I’d choose to take to a desert island.
I always try to play it cool, like I’m not afraid germs will jump right off surfaces straight into my mouth.
When I first started at my school, I tried not to be the token germaphobe teacher. I thought I was doing well until our old (as in, not-at-our-school-anymore-old) counselor made some joke about me almost certainly having a black light app on my phone (We were in a really shady bus. I’d explain why we needed a black light, but I think you know).
I remember thinking, “How did she know?”
After some self-reflection, I realized she knew, along with everyone else who’s come into contact with me, because I put on hand sanitizer precisely 537 times a day.
I really thought I was stealth about my hand sanitizer use.
Also, I’m that person sending death glares to adult you-should-know-better creeps who don’t cover their mouths.
1. I have to be minutes from death before you see me in an ER.
2. If someone close to me looks like they’ll be sick, I’ll run for the hills/call for an adultier adult/point to somewhere far away from me, indicating that’s where I’d like them to be.
3. I use my shirt to open doors with questionable handles.
4. I ask my boyfriend if he washed with soap after he uses the bathroom.
5. I’ve been known to put hand sanitizer in my nose if forced to breath in someone’s sneeze or hot death fart.
In all seriousness, I have problems.
I’ve always had a fear of vomiting-hearing it, seeing it, smelling it, doing it. Nope times ten million.
Also, I hate having someone see or know I’m sick. Just leave me alone. Better yet, let me hide in the hole I’ve just dug until I’m human again.
Shit got real about 10 years ago when I worked at a daycare during college. There was a huge norovirus outbreak, and it fucked with my mind in a major way. Like I mentioned before, I’ve never been a fan of puking, but when we went so far as to bleach crayons and books to prevent the spread of a virus, something clicked in me.
This is bad shit. Literally. I don’t want to puke and poop, involuntarily and simultaneously. How long does this illness from Hell last? Will I have to go to the ER with a puke bucket? OMG. No. We’re all gonna die. HELP. We’re.All.Gonna.Die.
So, during the great Norovirus Outbreak Freak Out of 2006, I would go to serious OCD extremes to “protect” myself from getting sick. Really, these were just compulsions that made me feel safe.
When I got home after being stuck in the hot box of germs all day, I’d strip at the door. Before scalding myself in the shower, I’d wipe my purse, keys, and phone down with Clorox wipes.
This was an everyday thing and I didn’t feel *OK* until my routine was done.
Whenever an illness starts making its rounds, I try to play it cool. Even after I hear of the 58th person I know to bite the dust, I try to act like I’m not about the worrying life, but then I find myself spraying my face down with spray hand sanitizer whenever someone’s breath comes a little too close to my face holes.
As much as being sick sucks, I realize that vomiting is not the end of the world (I mean, if you are vomiting due to Ebola, that might mean the end of the world. But, that was so 2014).
I’m not as OCD about getting sick anymore, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend two days on my bathroom floor.
So that I’m not the only freak in the room, tell me what you’re phobic about. Any fellow emetophobics? If so, how do you calm yer tits when shit gets real? Let me know in the comments!
Remember this from my But Don’t Do That post? Even this is a lie. If you’re puking in my house, I’m packing and heading for Mexico. NOPE.