I am a self-confessed germophobe. Not quite an Adriana Monk, but if someone were to follow me around and offer me wipes, I wouldn't refuse. Even my students are trained. If one sneezes vehemently, they'll look to see if I notice. If I don't catch the offending one quickly enough, the others will chorus, "Antibacterialize!" and point him toward the sanitizer.
Tonight's Bible study had a missions focus. It was down to five guys and me, and we went to a group home to play games with the residents. I didn't have to touch anything the whole way in, and even found a safe-looking chair from which to hang my jacket. Nothing had to touch anything...
I made it about an hour that way. The guys were busy playing Uno with the resident females, and the resident females were glowing from their attention. I wandered a bit and said hi to the two wheelchair-bound young men. They weren't verbal, but their eyes acknowledged that I was speaking, at least. I wished I had more to say; I honestly wish I'd had a puppy to set on Purple's lap--to have some sort of stimulus other than the plain dining room walls.
Pam showed up, and she's big and scary. She towered over me and reminded me of an elderly lady who threatened me in a nursing home about a year ago. Seriously. But she sat down at the table, and when her helper moved away, I slid in to aid in picking which Uno cards to play. And I still didn't have to touch anything.
Attention switched to dual games of Sorry. I was offered a seat, but I've worked at a camp for mentally and physically disabled people. I've changed adult diapers before. Having picked up my germophobia since then, it's really hard to reconcile the two--prior knowledge and microscopic foes. I stood.
And then it happened. The nicest of the workers stopped beside me and asked if I could pick up the stuffed Rudolph on the floor.
Uh.
"No, I'm scared to touch things" didn't seem the right response. I held my breath, reached into the small space between Deb's wheelchair and one of the guys, and plucked up Rudolph by the ear.
"Thanks!" the worker smiled as she headed off with Rudolph.
I, however, was soiled. Then I consoled myself--it was only my left hand that had touched something that had been on the floor that had been traversed by people whose personal cleanliness is not the highest priority in the world. And it was only two fingers, at that. I could isolate them for the remainder of our time...
One of the games of Sorry was really quite competitive--at least, for three of the players. The fourth kept getting booted back to his starting position, and I smiled at the two residents when they were the ones who sent him there. Deb smiled back at me with a grin that was missing all her middle teeth. And then, the next incident occurred: she went to high five me.
One finger, two finger...whole hand? my brain calculated quickly. Oh no! I'd watched her lick her fingers before drawing a card. ARRRRGH!
But what...do you do...?
In my non-athletic way, I highfived her back.
When Deb rolled off to attend to her pre-bedtime duties and one of the guys suggested I fill in for her, I had nothing to lose. I picked up my cards, moved my pieces around the board, and was two slots shy of having them all in safely when Deb returned. She drew the card, it was a "2," and she slid in for the win. The guys cheered for her, as did her housemate, and Deb did a victory dance from her chair. I stood behind her and smiled. The evening was a little victory for me, too.
"Marilyn," in a pink Chicago cap and a yellow bandana, with breasts that quite possibly rested on her lap, had marched her little pieces around the Sorry board in silence. As the guys and I stood to go, Marilyn puttered into and out of the kitchen. Pausing beside me, she whispered with grace and hospitality, "Come again!"
Oh, honeys, thanks for the love!
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