DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

I have a germ phobia. You may know this; I’ve written about it before, and before that, and even before that. And again even before I began publishing my stories online — as evidenced by an old travelogue email I sent to friends several years ago, which recalled:

I saw a poster recently that screamed in 72-point Futura Heavy Condensed, “The Ten Most Common Causes of Infection.” The picture showed a pair of hands. I was thinking that they should have airbrushed something grotesque at the end of each of the fingers, but I suppose it’s better to leave some things to the imagination.

Why go to all the trouble of maintaining a phobia? For one thing, I work at home, so I’m not as frequently exposed to the variety of pathogens that, say, you are. For a second thing, I once had a condensed germ-transmission experience, where I sat down (healthy) next to a sneezing classmate and, within two hours, began sneezing myself. Actually it may have been the other way around — maybe I was the sick one, and I infected the person I sat next to, which would explain why I chose to sit next to her after she’d refused to go out with me the previous weekend. Anyway, I digress.

Traveling always makes me mindful of germs, because airports are chock full of vermin. I’m referring to the people. I once saw a skycap rub his thumb across his front teeth, like he’d dropped his toothbrush but kept on brushing, and then reach out with the same hand (thumb glistening wet) to pick up a suitcase. So when my mother cautioned me to wear a mask during my upcoming flight, I had to agree that it was a good idea. I work hard to stay healthy, and unsusceptible to bad germs, but still, avoiding exposure seems wise.

A trip to the pharmacy yielded two safe-travel treasures: a seven-pack of High Filtration Efficiency Maxi-Masks and a box of 200 (!) alcohol swabs. Yes, a few years from now I won’t fly without a personal oxygen supply and a full-body condom.

Once seated on the airplane, I reached for a mask, but stopped short. People will stare at me, I thought. My brother reported the same struggle — he carried a mask during his flight, but didn’t wear it either. It sounds dumb, I know, but there I was, not wearing a mask. “Send me your infectious vapors,” I seemed to be saying, “I’d rather breathe them in than risk having you laugh at my mask.” I finally put the mask on after everyone was seated.

I made liberal use of the swabs. I had to: the reason there were so many in the box is that each swab was only two square inches in size, about enough to wipe three of the Ten Unholy Fingertips of Infection before disintegrating.

So, did it work? Did I get sick?

I very nearly did. I used the mask for about half the flight, and I kept my hands clean, and yet the next morning I awoke to an unpleasant creeping nausea that made me wonder if breakfast would stay down. I had hot flashes. I had cold flashes. If it hadn’t been for the diarrhea, I’d have thought I was going through menopause. Fortunately all the symptoms faded after 12 hours. It wasn’t the flu after all.

The problem, I believe, was not a lack of sanitary precautions. My precautions were just not designed to protect me from bad airport-concession sandwiches, an unexpected vector of infection. We ate one at SFO that was so saturated with tapénade that the anchovy and olive flavor even overpowered the taste of the plastic sandwich wrap. Next time, we’ll remember an old lesson and bring our own sandwiches.