A slip of the wrist

I had an odd habit for many years that irked me when I caught myself doing it: I played with my face while I read. I’d purse my lips and squeeze them, I’d put a finger near my mouth, I’d rest my hand on my cheek, I’d squeeze my eyebrows together with my hands—any number of configurations.

When my germ-phobia increased, I forced myself to stop, realizing that I was only introducing more pathways for germs to infect my immune system.

Lately, however, I’ve been distracted by things in my head, and I’ve started the face touching again. It’s driving me batty! Or, battier! Twice in the past two weeks I’ve caught myself holding the rail on the bus, THEN RUBBING MY FACE WITH THE BACK OF MY HAND!!!! How could I commit this travesty against myself? What crime did my face commit to deserve this cruel treatment?

And then it happened again. Sitting in my doctor’s office, amidst all those germy people, I got out my book and started touching my face. Why did I slip back into that old habit? I haven’t done it in at least two years? And I tried to stop; I’d catch myself doing it, mentally yell at my hand, then seconds later, my hand was squishing my face up again.

O, woe unto me, that now I feel a head cold coming on. All the face touches, I just knew this would happen, but I prayed to the alcohol hand sanitizer to spare me over this one time, please, as a personal favor, just let me go this one time.

It ain’t happenin.