Paranonia activity

 

"This is ridiculous," I said to myself, slathering my chapped and bleeding hands with Vaseline and sliding them into a pair of gloves before bed. 

It was the second week of student teaching, and my germaphobic tendencies had reached their climax. Honestly, this had to stop. Hand sanitizer every few minutes, ducking under a desk to avoid the oncoming spray of a sneeze, removing all clothes in the garage before entering the house. (All right, I didn't really do that. Once. Maybe twice. Leave me alone). 

But the last cold I had gotten had only lasted a few days, so surely my white blood cells were finally acclimated to their new saliva/mucus/phlegm filled environment. 

It was time to lighten up. 

So I started to get purposefully careless. The two second rule became the to-heck-with-it rule. Drop a spoon on the floor en route to the classroom from the microwave--heck with it! Anti-venom for something, surely. Go ahead, use it! Particularly spit-filled kid experiencing his first realization that PoPcorn, PuPPY, Penguin, and Pencil all start with P, two inches in front of my face. Bring it. Even wet shoe laces, those I would admittedly pretend I didn't see, before suddenly becoming suspiciously enthusiastic and supportive of the child's autonomy in tying their own shoes, "Come on kiddo, I think you can! I think you can! (Forty minutes later) See I knew you could do it yourself! Good job!" 

No more! I was no longer phased by such foolishness. Really Katie, how small is a germ and how big are you? Honestly....

And then it happened. The one critter I could not talk myself out of. 

The nit. 

It starts as a dull rumble within the school, a leak out of the nurses office, talked about in hushed voices behind cupped hands. Teachers pass notes to each other on the playground. The black spot on a crumpled scrap of notebook paper. It's here. The outbreak. 

Holy Rid Batman! I touch those kids on the head all the time! Like, all the time! I'm a notorious hair tousler! 

"I'm proud of the way you two worked out that situation." tousle their hair.

"Hey! Look at that 1st grade quality name on your paper! Good for you!" tousle the hair.

"Do you think we'll need to amputate or will a kiss and a bandaid do?" tousle the hair.

I tap them each on the head counting them before P.E.

I tap them each on the head counting them on the way into lunch.

I tap them each on the head counting them on the way into library.

Computers.

Music. 

Recess. 

I'm sure I touched each one of those 20 little heads thirty times today. 

I start seeing possible breeding grounds everywhere. Hooded jackets on hooks within jumping distance of each other. The backpacks lined up. Touching each other. I picture the little creepy crawlies bounding from spot to spot, like the little ball on sing-along videos. 

Aiming for me. I experience phantom itch.

I can't hide. This is the career I've chosen for myself, in all its guts and glory. But let this be heard. I do not tuck my bangs behind my ear anymore. I let them hang in my face sticking to my lip gloss all day because I'm not touching any area on my person above the waist. I'm willing to embrace Obama's ridiculous fist-bump when praising particularly outstanding efforts.

And I'll go back to stripping in the garage.

Warning to CLS parents