I Tried Not to Touch My Face for 30 Minutes

I watched the movie Contagion on the flight home from Paris two weeks ago. It was half way through the 8.5 hour transatlantic trip to JFK. Everyone around me in the cabin was asleep, hoodies hiding faces, heads slumped on the shoulders of those next to them.

I was nearing 24 hours of being awake, I had just finished Run Fatboy Run and I was brushing a tear from my cheek, blaming my emotions over such a terrible movie on my insomnia. I sipped my complimentary beverage and scrolled through the limited selection of entertainment offered by the airline. Run Fatboy Run had likely killed some of my brain cells so I figured I should counterbalance with something smarter, or at least more serious.

I stopped scrolling as one of the thumbnails caught my eye. I could just make out the faces of several big stars like Gwyneth Paltrow, Matt Damon, Jude Law, Kate Winslet and Laurence Fishburn. The tag line, positioned on a big yellow block of color in the center of the image, read "Nothing Spreads Like Fear. Andy had watched the movie and, despite my love of Walking Dead (pre-departure of Andrew Lincoln) I am not a huge fan of science fiction, or "virus turns the world into zombies" flicks.

I'll never quite know the reason why I chose to watch Contagion. Perhaps there'd been a slight dip in cabin pressure or delusion from lack of sleep. Turns out, it was a mistake.

If you've not watched this flick full of stars, I shall summarize here: In this "Wikipedia- deemed medical action thriller" Gwyneth Paltrow is a big executive who returns from Hong Kong and ends up spewing foam and chunks over coffee and dies moments later in the hospital. I personally don't feel bad because the side plot is that she cheated on her husband on her layover home and well, Goop. The tale unravels as people start dropping like flies, the CDC and WHO take action in a complicated fashion, people get crazy freaked and trample one another, loot, and shoot each other in desperation. Jude Law is a widely followed conspiracy theorist who claims there is a homeopathic cure, he gets super annoying and is thankfully arrested. While all of this is unraveling, Matt Damon, sweetheart, cutie, nice guy and hubby of Gwyneth, watches his wife die only to return home to his dead son. Turns out he is immune and his mission is to protect his only living child, his daughter, who spends the entirety of the movie not fearing for her life, but being teen bitchy angry because she can't hook up with her boyfriend. As the movie closes, a vaccine has been developed and hope is on the horizon. The end.

Six months ago, I would have filed this movie in my "the world is going to end but not today" box in my brain. I try not to sift through that box too often because I can barely get my pants on each day, let alone worry about pandemics and global warming. Yet, that file gets bigger each day. Six months ago I would have rationalized the movie as Hollywood sensationalizing public health and pandemics that only occur far, far away from me.

The problem is that art imitates life. The problem is that the first day of our trip to Paris, a Chinese man died in a Paris hospital. He was the first person outside of China to die from the Corona Virus, COVID-19. A week after we left Paris, the Louvre shut it doors. It is selfish to admit, but I am so thankful that French officials chose not to shut down tourist attractions earlier. We spent months planning our trip and it was an adventure we will never forget.

Just like the people on the Grand Princess cruise ship. Except their trip has not ended quite like mine.

As we now brace ourselves for the ever-evolving virus that is rapidly spreading across our own country, I can't stop thinking about Contagion and the fear that is infiltrating our daily lives. On the one hand, it's business and life as usual and, on the other hand, I'm ripping through the girls' rooms, gathering all of the little hand sanitizers that they love to collect. I pick up extra water, toilet paper and soap every time I drop into the grocery store.

I check the WHO and CDC websites every other day, reviewing their FAQ section. Their tips are simple and they are helping me devise an action plan.

Things to do:

Stay aware.

Wash your hands.

Use hand sanitizer.

Self quarantine if necessary.

Make a plan.

Things not to do:

Travel to a country, or area, with a large outbreak.

Drink bleach.

Listen to anything Donald Trump or Mike Pence say.

Bathe in hand sanitizer.

Be racist and blame the Chinese.

Freak out.

Touch your face.

I'm screwed. I'm so, so screwed. I touch my face ALL DAY long. I've been touching my face for as long as I can remember. It is a nervous tic that has unconsciously helped me through an anxious life. I can vividly recall a very mean teacher mocking me in elementary school, pretending to be me, using a high pitched voice and rubbing her hands under her nose. I rub my fingers and hands on my lips or under my nose when I'm nervous or deep in thought. I fuss with my nose constantly, especially now that I have a nose ring. (You decide if fussing means picking.) I used to wear contacts, but I don't any longer so at least I'm not sticking my hands in my eyes anymore.

After watching a hilarious YouTube video of health officials and politicians telling us not to touch our faces, while touching their faces, I decided that, if I can do anything to protect myself, and everyone around me, I should try to stop touching my face. I tried not to touch my face on my drive home from work last week.

My ride home is 30 minutes long. I got in the car, started the engine and selected a radio station to suit my mood. I placed my phone on the passenger seat. I turned on the engine and my hand quickly moved to my mouth. Just before it made contact, I placed it back on the steering wheel. Thirty seconds later, my other hand moved toward my mouth. I swore and placed that hand on the console. I made a left off campus and my nose started to itch. I scrunched my nose a couple of times then I flared my nostrils. Repeatedly. I got into a scrunch-flare pattern for about four minutes. I noticed my foot pressing the gas with intensity. I lessened my lead foot. I tapped my fingers on the wheel. I felt an eyelash creeping under my eye lid. I fluttered my eyes, open, closed, open, closed. I added a little nose snort to the routine.

Flare nose, snort, blink, blink, blink, tap fingers, tap fingers, big inhale, flare nose. Scrunch. My knuckles turned white from gripping the wheel. This was now the longest drive home ever, far worse than the evening drives home in snowstorms.

As I neared the girls' after school pick up location, I felt like bugs were crawling on me, my glasses melting down my nose, and my nostrils in a permanent state of flare. I pulled up to the building and looked down at my arm. I tried to touch my face with my elbow unsuccessfully, and as I lowered it to my side, I gave up. I brought my hand up to my nose, using my fingers to wipe an invisible hair from under my nostril. I heaved a sigh of relief.

The infection has spread from NYC to upstate New York. It feels more real by the day. I will go the grocery store again today to gather more paper towels and hand soap. I'll look for Purell but it will be long gone. I will hope that I'm a little more Matt Damon and a little less Gwyneth Paltrow.

And for those of you who have been exposed to me, who are worried that I just traveled internationally to a country where someone died from Corona virus, I have passed the 14-day incubation period. With that said, I touched my face 100 times while writing this post.