One of last week's errands was a trip to the auto shop to get my car inspected and get the oil changed. The shop was crowded; I ended up being there for an hour and forty-five minutes. For most of that time I was entertained by a twenty-month-old girl who kept bringing me items out of her diaper bag. She was cute as could be, and we got along fabulously, but the longer she played with me, the more concerned I became. She had a bad cold. Her mom tried her best to keep her nose wiped, but every time the tiny girl returned with a chapstick, a thermometer, or a baggie of Goldfish, the snot made another run for it. Bless her heart, she'd give it a wipe herself with her free hand, then that hand would be the next one to fish around in the diaper bag.
After the breathing difficulties I had during a bout of bronchitis early this year, I did not want to catch that baby's cold. More than that, though, I didn't want to hurt her feelings. I kept a smile on my face, my worries to myself, and, for at least half an hour, a germy, economy-sized tube of Boudreaux's Butt Paste clutched in my right fist.
That hour and forty-five minutes felt like a long time. When my car was ready, I blew off the rest of my errands and drove straight home. I sanitized my hands first, then grabbed a handful of Clorox wipes and worked my way backward through my purse, the inside and outside door knobs, the door handle on my car, the seat belt, the steering wheel, the door of the glove compartment, and the cover of the little book that holds my insurance and registration papers. Better safe than sorry.