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Confessions of a Germophobe
I waited until steam wafted up from the sink, then plunged my hands beneath the scalding water. I scrubbed furiously with soap, poking myself under the nails and sweeping the suds up and down my arms. My knuckles turned red first, then my palms, and then my fingers turned a fiery color. I washed and washed, half-convinced that I would never remove the contagion.
No, this wasn’t during the Covid-19 pandemic. This was more than 20 years ago, when I was a preteen in the throes of severe obsessive-compulsive disorder. I was terrified of invisible microbes that I was convinced would kill me, and I regularly slaughtered my hands in an attempt to stay alive.
Since being treated for OCD, I’ve been fairly cavalier when it comes to germs. In fact, I swung to the other extreme, regularly allowing dirt and germs to cover my hands as I gardened or cooked. I submerged my hands in the earth surrounding my beloved plants. I abandoned my fear of salmonella and regularly handled raw meat without gloves. I had no issues with picking up strange objects, sans paper towel, and tossing them in the bin. That’s what soap is for, I figured.
My husband recoils when he sees me carry out the trash or scoop the litter box without gloves. He’s a germaphobe, but I am a recovering one. I believe in the power of soap and hand sanitizer. As though to make up for my years of…
