I DID learn a lot about the prostate. So there is that.

So have I told you all about how, over the years, I've morphed into something of a germ-a-phobe? No? Let's discuss...

My phobia is really quite specific. I'm not running around spritzing every door handle with Lysol or stock-piling in case of a pandemic or anything normal like that. No, it's more that I get incredibly irritated by people who are ILL who just move around without regard for those of us who are trying to stay well. That woman who coughed into her hand and then picked out some apples at the grocery store? GROSS. Clearly, we need to burn the entire produce section down. That man who is at the store sneezing all over the place and then TOUCHING everything? Were you raised by wolves? Well, no, that's insulting to the wolves. I feel this incredible urge to hose these people off with Clorox, cover them with gauze and ship them off elsewhere. While wearing a hazmat suit and then showering in penicillin. Twice. I can just see someone moving about in a manner that suggests illness and my brain automatically goes to this place of, "OH SWEET JESUS, if we share the same air space I will wake up tomorrow with oozing lesions and no hair." And I realize that my immune system is quite capable of dealing with someone's heavy, snot-laden mouth breathing, I'd just rather not. Get your mucus away from me, please.

So today I had to go to the drug store to pick up a prescription. I realize that my chances of running into someone who is suffering from some malady in a place such as this are high. I'm willing to admit that it's unreasonable for me to think that you can always have someone else ferry your medication to you. (Though someone should look into that as a business. You're welcome.) But while I was standing in line, a woman came up behind me and stood quite close, breathing in such a moist manner that I was surprised she didn't mouth-drip a massive spit ball onto the back of my neck. I was reasonably skeeved out and afraid to turn around for fear of what my eyes might see. The end of the world, I was certain.

I moved a few steps away which seemed to indicate to her that we were getting closer to the front of the line, as she moved with me and now stood even closer. I could smell her, and it was a combination of sock and the grave. My blood pressure began to soar and I wondered how impertinent it would be to go up to the counter and stand behind the non-mouth-breathing man who was picking up something for his prostate. He was also hard of hearing as he kept yelling at the pharmacist, "WILL THIS MAKE THE SWELLING IN MY BALLS GO DOWN?" So I didn't think he would mind if I hovered, despite the signage above him that read "STAY BACK TO ENSURE CUSTOMERS PRIVACY." Yeah, no.

At this point, I was pretty sure there was a huge puddle of snot building up behind me as the woman kept breathing in this rattly and choking manner. I rummaged into my purse, found my Kleenex and turned to her saying, "Would you like one of these?" I didn't make eye contact, but looked busily over her left shoulder while she reached out a wretched hand and took the tissue, dabbing at her eyes and nose with it all while hacking up what I can only assume to be a lung, and perhaps a kidney, given the force of her heaving expulsions. I turned back around and inched forward. We stood for a while longer, Mr. Enlarged Balls seeming to have an infinite amount of questions about how long it was going to take for the swelling to subside. A long time, apparently, since the pharmacist had to yell back instructions to him and now I know what he'll be doing this weekend. And it won't involve sex. For a few weeks, in fact.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. Cringing, I turned around.

The sickly woman clutched at my arm and said, "I seem to have something in my eye...can you look and tell me if you see anything?" I continued to look over her left shoulder for fear that if I gazed directly into what I can only assume were bleeding eyeballs, I would subsequently succumb to the Plague, or Consumption or an STD. My visions blurred and suddenly I heard "Next!" from the pick-up window. Saved! Sorry about your eye! I have to go home now and burn this shirt.

It should be mentioned that, oh yeah, I was pre-med! And wanted to specialize in infectious diseases! How's that for a one-two punch of irony? Regardless, I got out of there somewhat unscathed but with an acute sense of needing to shower. I suppose this can be read as something of a cautionary tale. Should you come to my house with suspicious sniffles, don't be surprised if I put you out back and visit with you through the sliding door. It's either that or the Clorox bath. Your choice.