It’s the day before Thanksgiving of 2017 the day I post this. So, if you read this on or around that holiday, I wish you a Happy Thanksgiving.
My love affair with hand sanitizer began innocently enough. Remember that trip I took last month to Port Canaveral on the east coast? The organizer of this trip, who yelled at our direction (despite being a foot or two away) as the trip began, “Hand san-i-tiz-ahs! Use these after you use the slots! Keeps the germs away!” Or something like that.
I didn’t ask if she was from the Northeast, but I did detect a strong New York accent, on top of being overly loud. Full disclosure: both my parents escaped the NYC wilderness and came here to the Tampa Bay area in March of 1971, so while I was born here in the Tampa Bay area, I was apparently conceived in New York.
Me and my seat partner, a good friend of my mother’s whom I’ve known over ten years, looked at each other like the organizer was off of whatever medications she takes, if any. I kept the small bottle, didn’t use any of it during the trip, and it sat a few days at my desk. One day, I had to clean my hands for some reason at the computer, and figured I might as well give the sanitizer a try.
I put the clear fluid in the palm of my left hand, then rubbed it on my right. Actually, it wasn’t too bad! Great, now I have a hand sanitizer addiction, I thought. Do they have a twelve step program for hand sanitizers? Will I flock to that section of Walmart when I go there next? What will the after effects be? Or side effects, even?
Seriously, it’s just stuff. Works great. Nothing to fear.