It still may be, for all I know, but I don’t know because I can’t remember the last time I actually licked my fingers.
And that’s because I’ve morphed into a walking, talking germ-o-phobe. Howard Hughes has nuthin’ on me.
These days I spray Lysol on everything and avoid shaking shake hands, because I’m afraid of catching E-coli or the latest strain of flesh-eating bacteria, and besides, I don’t know where a stranger’s hands have been. Which is why I back away with a weak wave and even weaker excuse (“My hand hurts today because I… lifted a Pontiac off my neighbor!”)
Then there’s the “social food” problem, when you’re faced with food that has not been prepared in a state-licensed restaurant with a sanitation rating of A+. Unless I’ve actually watched you crack the eggs or cook the meat (and preferably inserted the thermometer myself), forget it. I’m a nervous wreck.
I used to sneer at germs. I used ATMs without a pencil to push the numbers. I talked on communal phones and typed on communal computers. If I dropped a Frito on the floor, I’d snatch it up and scarf it down. I used public toilets and drank from public water fountains. I probably would have licked a doorknob on a dare.
But that was then and this is now. I’ve learned what germs can do, which has led to my current state of dread. The lessons were:
1) In 2007 I started throwing up at work, which led to throwing up in the parking lot, which became throwing up in my car (a co-worker was driving, thank God), which segued into throwing up all over the ER admittance desk.
After barfing on a nurse and two gurneys, the fun began: I started literally foaming at the mouth. Every time I retched, foam flew far and wide. My co-worker, a staff photographer who served in Viet Nam, was convinced I had rabies.
Two hours later, after shots and IVs and heated blankets, the ER doc announced that I appeared to have norovirus. “Nora who?” I asked fuzzily.
“The good news is, you’re not going to die. The bad news is, you’re not going to die,” she chuckled. “But you should be over the worst by tomorrow.”
Now that I know who Nora is and how easily she spreads herself around, I avoid her at all costs.
2) A year ago, I returned from a trip to North Carolina feeling fine. At 1 a.m. I woke drenched in sweat, fell out of bed and threw up on the dog. Then the other end of my digestive system decided to join the party.
Five hours later I was again in the ER with dry heaves and a nifty potassium drip. The doctor asked if I’d eaten anything “that didn’t taste right.”
“Not really, but I pigged out all weekend,” I admitted. “Chicken, deviled eggs, pasta salad, fried fish, pie, baked potato with sour cream. Too much rich food, I guess.”
He shook his head. “When you eat something that doesn’t agree with you, you throw it up and life goes on,” he said. “This is food poisoning. You ate something that was contaminated.”
So there you have it: Norovirus and food poisoning. Life’s too short to spend it throwing up. Pass me the meat thermometer.
Julie R. Smith, who’s always suspicious of something, can be reached @ widdleswife@aol.com.