Mysophobia [9.4.08]

If one is fortunate enough, the observance of others deciphers certain human phenomena, such as the ever-popular mysophobia or more commonly "germaphobia". Those who claim to be "germaphobes" do just that - allege to be afraid of dirt, dust, spills, etc. In turn, the majority of society questions the actual existence of such a disease, and most come to a negative conclusion; said "germaphobe" does not have an actual lack of immunities, but rather heightened egotism. Consequently, observing one whose "fear" is both impractical and unavoidable leaves the observer with nothing less than entertainment equal to cinematic quality. One of the most fascinating parts of the germaphobic lifestyle is the behavior seen at large social gatherings. Spotting the dripping punch keg, I responded with what I assumed to be a suitable solution - a napkin on the floor. However, my germaphobic friend took the alternative route and placed a trash can under the dripping spout. The twist? When replacing the napkin with the trash can, most people would also pick up the napkin and have the trash can actually replace it. Because the napkin was soaked to the floor, my friend refused to relocate it, and instead placed the trash can directly over it. Twenty minutes later, I stepped on a pretzel while on my way to a punch refill. I instinctively turned to my germaphobic friend and apologized for spreading crumbs because I knew the slightest of messes was one of his greatest irritations. Realizing how second nature and almost trance-like my apology was, I sheepishly returned to my seat. Minutes later, a twentieth-century peace offering came in the form of hand sanitizer. After I used it, my friend played it safe and smelled my hands in order to observe the aftermath of the sanitizer. With one whiff, he closed his eyes in disgust and returned to the sink, where he washed his hands for the third time. Frankly, I was stumped: does he realize germs are chronic? How long are his showers? Does he catch a cold as often as I do? And most importantly, when is the last time I washed my hands?

Ham She Wrote [9.3.08]

More often than not, specific human behavior is difficult to recognize. The nationally acclaimed act of "people-watching" is deemed unfit for so-called normal humanity, but what of watching oneself? I assumed my recurring role as "Alyssa" was one that had been figured down to the last detail. However, I have found that when under certain pressures, to one's own surprise, the self can tend to become the most interesting of subjects. Today's pressure just so happens to be the fear of getting caught. Although, it should be mentioned that legality is relative. For example, stealing money is wrong, but what about being an accessory - to the devouring of several ham shavings and a single twelve-grain slice of bread? Today was busy to say the least, and in turn, my friend and I found ourselves in his house, coincidentally in the midst of peak hunger. Murphy and his law made sure I had just enough time to waste, but not enough to eat a decent meal. So, with my friend's seal of approval, I entered the fridge empty and exited full of possibilities. I thought to myself, ham and provolone and chip dip, oh my! I knew that what I grabbed did not belong to my friend, but to his roommate...and neither of us seemed to care. However, amidst the third and fourth bite, we heard the creak of the front door. I halted the chewing. My stomach dropped. Immediately, almost as instinctively as the "soccer-mom-arm-save", I shoved the remaining evidence in the silverware drawer and slammed it shut. In what seemed like a lifetime, but realistically occurred in the following four or five seconds, my friend and I took the stage as those kids that did not do anything: sandwich? Er - uh - who said anything about a sandwich? (Nervous laughter and flailing shrugs included.) Then a sigh of relief erupted from both parties after the quick and almost sheepish realization of mistaken identities. The roommate that we "borrowed" from was student teaching, and the whodunit would go unanswered.
Reflecting on the rather silly situation and our reaction, some questions could be raised. Does hunger constitute theft? Are there fishy fingerprints lurking on the counters of Maple East? Would I ever repay my friend? And if so, what would I repay him with? Ham? An eighth of a twelve-grain loaf? A half-eaten can of chip dip? And perhaps the most important question of all: did I learn my lesson? Twelve minutes later, my friend went upstairs to take a shower, and coincidentally left his book bag downstairs. I looked around, turned off ESPN, walked over to the backpack, and started snooping. I sneakily discovered the treasure of the century - and covered up my onion-dip breath with a stick of his Stride gum.

Kodak Gone Wrong [9.2.08]

One of the most interesting parts of observing human emotion is the aftermath of something not going right, either going wrong or just not going the way one intended. To watch one is sometimes comical, especially when the thing that went wrong is indeed a small detail in the midst of truly important aspects of the day. When my friend dropped her camera, the "nose" or "eye" was ruined, and to make matters far worse, she was forced to spend an ungodly twenty minutes on the phone. When asked for her address, she spouted off "Division highway..." but was interrupted by the Kodak representative who was clearly of Eastern descent. All I heard was "No! D as in dog!" There were recognizable sighs of impatience and looks of disdain. After what seemed like a lifetime of silence with "uh-um" and "um-um" sporadically thrown in, she hung up. One of the most entertaining attributes of the human is the impersonation of another - while angry. "No! Not C as in Charlie - D!", of course mimicked with an Indian accent. Like any decent human being, she soon apologized and asked how my day was going, with which I just nodded and replied. Her IM message read I HATE Kodak, with which she quickly commented about the stupidity of Kodak not allowing camera shops to repair their products. Amidst the coincidences of menstrual "crampiness" and things dropping, she saucily vocalized the quote known throughout mankind: "Apparently...it's not...my...day." Before lunch, we went to the post office and mailed the camera. Throughout the morning, there was a combined total of seven sighs, four grimaces, and two grumbles to which I responded with a giggle. I couldn't bring myself to sympathize with her, simply because the situation wasn't much of a situation at all. None of the events were precursors of necessary mourning or lament, but verbally that is what took place. My hyper observance and heightened sense of humanness made me sit back and chuckle. It also made me wonder - what does society deem as sob-worthy? Do all of us simply complain because there is nothing better on the boob tube? Is today's misfortune tomorrow's gossip column?