Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," lieblings! My name is Anne Johnson. With Facebook on the rampage against "pseudonyms," I'm glad I got dealt such a generic monicker.
OOOPS! I did it again. I put my hand on my face.
Maybe I'm the queen of this habit. I rub my eyes, I rest my chin in my palm, I scratch my nose, I use my fingers to apply makeup. Second nature. I've had my hands up to my face since babyhood. Maybe you have, too.
Where are my hands otherwise? Grading student papers. Opening classroom doors. Brushing desks. Handling the utensils on the salad bar. Today I will probably have to turn off six or seven student computers, because my last class of the day is my most childish, and they don't pay attention. Honestly, by the end of the school day -- even if I've washed up two or three times -- my hands are grubby. Then, it being allergy season, I rub my eyes. Tissues? I've never had tissues handy, in times of crisis or otherwise. My dad always lent me his handkerchief that he carried in his pocket, like all gents of the Greatest Generation did.
Forget ebola for a moment (as if). We all need to keep our hands away from our faces. This is just practical hygiene. But for some people, like me, with entrenched face-palming behavior, this means breaking a longstanding habit.
How do I break a habit that is second nature? I probably do the face-palm dozens of times a day without even noticing. My dad, with his dad-smelling cotton handkerchiefs, is in the Summerlands with the faeries. He can't help me now.
I'll admit to being paranoid about infectious illness. My daughters are too. Could this have a supernatural component? I'm almost certain my great-grandmother died of influenza. What else would have killed a woman in the prime of life in 1918?
Well, beautiful Great-Granny, I am going to try to keep my mitts out of my mug. I'm going to make a conscious effort.
It's going to be tough. Send me gentle reminders, won't you?