Buttworms and Automatic Sinks

I'd like to think that most people wash their hands after using the restroom. I'd like to think this, but honestly, I know better. I see them walk right past the sinks. Perhaps they give it a look as if to make a mental note of "no, not this time," or perhaps they keep straight ahead, the thought of cleaning off whatever genetic material that may be on their hands nowhere near their line of thought.

Not that I'm a sink saint. I'm not OCD about it or anything. I am, however terrified of parasites, and not washing your hands is a good way to get a big family of pinworms in your butt.

Biology class was a lot of fun for me. But when we got to the part about parasites, I couldn't handle it. I mean, c'mon, I diced up a huge fetal pig (fun story, our pig was big and black, twice the size of everyone else's tiny pink piggies), and several other formerly living creatures. But parasites, just the thought of it gives me chills. Whatever the "fear of parasites" is is probably the closest thing I have to a true phobia.

I tried to face my fears once and watch one of those TLC Discovery type shows, you know, the kind with titles like "James, the half ton man" or "the boy who had no face" or "the lose who never went on dates." I've always like these medical mystery shows, and when one that was named something along the line of "Eaten from the inside out" came on, I made myself watch it. I made it through, but it was tough. There was no losing of lunches or tossing of proverbial cookies, but I still hated every moment of it.

Biting my nails was a bad habit I had as a kid. I more or less kicked it, but every once in a while I would notice that my fingernails needed cutting, and instead of waiting until I came home to cut them I would bite them off. I figured ragged nails looked better than grungy long nails. A good friend of mine named Jonathan told me this is the very method by which he was host to his own special friends living in his colon. Apparently the eggs can live in the dirt that's underneath your nails and once you put that junk in your mouth, yeah, it's in your system.

Needless to say, I stopped immediately.

Being afraid of parasites and being a bit of a hypochondriac is a mostly bad combination. When my Biology professor listed the symptoms of pinworm infestation, my mind started going. The main symptom: itchy butt. Yeah, that's happened before. Crap. What do I do? The prof told us the only way to test if you do have pinworms is to have someone else wait until you are asleep, and stick a bit of scotch tape to your pooper to see if you have any. This is because they wait until you are asleep (smart little buggers, they're inside you and yet they know what kind of wicked schedule you keep) and then "come outside" and do a little dance, make a little love, and generally get down tonight.

Neither KC nor the sunshine band would be able to convince me that I'd be comfortable with someone performing the scotch tape test.

No, I am not a sink saint. I try, but sometimes I just don't wash my hands.

But a lot of the times I couldn't do it to save my life.

What is it with those automatic sinks? You know, the ones that are in every bathroom built since 1994 and have some sort magic voodoo sensor that knows when your hands are waiting patiently, soaped up and ready for a vigorous rinsing.

I just can't work these things.

It happens every time. Without fail. I squirt a little soap into my hands and rub it around, generally bubbling over my whole hand region. I put my hands down there and start the washing hands motions. But nothing. Not a drop of water comes out. I apparently haven't tripped the sensor. Either this, or it is mad at me for the last time I came in because I let myself get out of hand and it knows that this time will be no different. When no water comes, I start shaking my hands, trying to find the sweet spot. Somewhere, somewhere in this basin is the magic spot that gloriously unlocks the treasures of a thousands springs. But I have to find it first. Without fail I start to shake wilder, harder, and faster. Eventually I am angry and punching the air under the spout, muttering under my breath that if the bloody sink had a real faucet I'd be done by now instead of flailing wildly like a small child after a refined sugar eating contest.

At some distant point in the future, I find the spot that the sink has greedily hidden and wash the crusty soap from my hands. I always walk away wondering if I can develop some sort of bathroom going technique that is totally, 100% hands-free. Afterwards I'd be able to walk past the hexed sink and smile, knowing that I have no need of its cruel services.

Until then, I'll walk by, hoping to God that I see a handle on the sink.

If so, hopefully it's not one of those that you have to hold the handle down to make the water flow.

I mean, seriously, how are you supposed to use those?

Left, right, left, right, left, right, dry