Last night on the phone, my mom asked me whether I was taking my vitamins and I hastily answered, "Yes, yes, of course," even though the vitamin bottles have not been opened since last March. It is only October; it is not yet time to get ill.
And then this morning I remembered that it is indeed October and 'tis the season of runny noses and chronic coughs. The girl hacking away next to me in the Top of the Hop reminded me of this. I could not keep my attention on Henry Adams because I was in such awe of this cough -- this girl was the most petite creature and yet she had a cough akin to King Kong's. What most amazed me about this cough was not its tremendous nature but the relative calm the girl maintained while her lung threatened to come flying from her rib cage.
As the girl to my left hacked away, I could not concentrate on my reading -- and this annoyed me. I started cursing myself for taking the seat next to the cougher and resented the fact that germs were flying all about me. Then I became bitter and reasoned that I must have done this girl some great wrong in a past life and now she was getting her revenge upon me by polluting my air with germs and distracting me from my reading. Yes, sometimes I get a little paranoid.
But I am not all that paranoid about germs. Well, not in comparison to my friend Tommy. If you sneeze on my salad or cough right in my face, then there's a strong possibility that you will be on my list of personal enemies for the day. My upbringing has also taught me not to share food with someone who's sick, and growing up, the Henning children always used separate hand towels. In any situation with three children, chances are either one of them is sick, about to get sick or just getting over being sick. My mother did not take chances when it came to germs.
But Tommy has the germ paranoia perfected to a science. He won't touch the nose of Warner Bentley. I swipe my hand across that gold nose two or three times a day -- not from habit but because I always seem to have a deficit of good luck. Tommy won't touch the nose because the last person who touched it probably has herpes. When he first told me this, I calmly walked to the bust, touched the nose and then licked my hand. I realize that that probably wasn't the most clever thing I have ever done, but I had to demonstrate to Tommy how ridiculous I think the extent of his paranoia is. If you're going to be too afraid to touch a bust's nose, then you better not drink from a public fountain, use public blitz or open a door without a glove.
As I write this, I cannot complain about my health. Of course, during the night, I will probably be struck down with the Top of the Hop girl's cough. But for the moment, I am safe. And so for the moment, I am biased against anyone possessing any degree of illness. When I am well and a friend has even a slight sniffle, I warn them that our friendship shall cease if I catch what they have. This happened earlier this year when my roommate was suffering from her allergies. I can't recall the specifics, but she had lost her voice, and so at least five times a day, I glared severely at her and indicated my necessary displeasure if I were to lose my voice. She'd protest that it was only allergies, and I'd just shake my head skeptically and go wash my hands.
I have no tolerance for unhealthy people. That is, I have no tolerance until I join their ranks, and then the double standard comes into play. Once I fall ill and my friends protest about my germs, I get defensive and cry that it is not my fault that I am ill. I get sullen when my peers cannot empathize with my condition.
So the next time the person next to me is struggling with the King Kong of coughs, I must remember that even if I am healthy now, by February, I will have some sort of wretched cold that will last well into the spring. I must also remember to not show this column to my mother; she must be kept under the illusion that I am taking my vitamins.
