Just call me 'Monk'

No, I'm not referring to the robed European or Tibetan monastery dwellers who live out their lives in silent, meditative poverty. 

I'm referring to the title character in the popular TV show about a detective with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD).

You see, ever since I was a kid I've had this a 'thing' about... er, germs.

This 'thing' got its start during a 1st grade science class where we all got to look through a microscope at the gazillions of little beasties that were teeming on our eyelashes, in our saliva and on our hands.  What the hell was Mrs. Sprague thinking???

For some reason the whole eyelashes thing never bothered me much... but the flora and fauna extant in saliva and on hands sorta wigged me out.

My parents had no idea of this budding phobia... but my older sister (in the manner of all older siblings) immediately picked up on my sudden reluctance to let others touch my eating utensils or share food from my glass or plate and turned it into a game of endless possibilities and permutations.

It became her habit to wait until my parents' backs were turned and then casually take a sip from my glass or stick her spoon into my bowl of cereal.  Just like that it would be 'game over'... I was done with whatever was being served.

Before anyone starts picturing a little boy in a bubble, I really didn't change much about the way I related to the rest of the world.  I still ate in the school cafeteria without a thought to how clean the trays and utensils might be.  I didn't become a neat freak or start lining up my pencils in orderly rows.

I just didn't take a sip when bottles of soda were passed around among friends... and I remained quietly protective of my place setting at the table. 

No big deal.

Of course when I started dating, I discovered with growing horror that many girls are under the misconception that guys find it endearing when they eat off our plates or casually take a sip of our drink.  I never let on that it bothered me, but to this day there are probably a lot of women walking around who's only memory of me is that I was exceedingly generous with my food and beverages.

Just as a side note, I never made the inductive leap to find kissing to be a potentially germ-filled experience... so go figure.

My lovely wife, who is perhaps a bit more perceptive than all of the unsuccessful applicants for the position, figured out almost as quickly as my sister that I had a few extra 'boundaries' than most guys.  To her credit she stuck around in spite of my germ mishigas.

In fact, probably the only time I can remember Zahava openly ridiculing me over the whole germ thing was on a crosstown bus in Manhattan after we had come from visiting my little sister and my first newborn niece in the hospital. 

The conversation went something like this:

Me: [taking a small bottle of alcohol gel hand sanitizer from my pocket] Here, you can have some of this when I'm done using it.

Zahava: Remind me again why I'd would want to use that?

Me: Hellooo, we just came from the hospital!

Zahava: and...?

Me:  Oh c'mon, those places are teeming with bacteria and germs.  We're probably covered with pathogens that haven't even been discovered yet!

Zahava: [looking at me with that same amused eyes my older sister used to give me as she plunged her spoon into my bowl of Captain Crunch] You know they have doctors that can help you with this problem of yours, right?

I'm guessing Zahava factored in the 'entertainment value' when she accepted my proposal of marriage.

Anyhoo... so why am I telling you all this?  Because moving to Israel has presented a whole new set of hurdles for a sightly germ-phobic person like myself.

It seems that Israelis know how to use bathrooms (well, most of them)... and even enjoy [~shudder~] talking in them.    But I could abide even that breach of etiquette if they would just consistently wash their hands when they were finished!

Yes, I can say after some fairly scientific observation that about 50% of Israelis (the men anyway), don't seem particularly careful about washing their hands after their turn at bat.

Let me put that another way that will help you better understand my current dis-ease: 

Roughly half of the men who extend their hands to me in a universally accepted form of greeting and respect, haven't made even a token effort to wash away their bathroom cooties!

Not only has this made the whole handshaking ritual fraught with displeasure for me... but even the simple act of exiting the bathroom has become a bit of a contortion act. 

You see, if about half the people who use the bathroom are going straight from the batters box out onto the ball field, it means that the door handle of the bathroom is a veritable petri dish of things that could make me want to hide in bed under the covers forever.

Not only does my post-at-bat ritual include turning the water on and off with a paper towel... but a few more trees are sacrificed so I can grasp the door handle!  I remember once when the bathroom was out of paper towels I had to wait until someone came in so I could ever-so-casually grab the edge of the door about halfway up its height so I wouldn't have to make contact with the pathogen-laden handle.

C'mon, that's not so weird, is it?  It's not like I keep a box of latex gloves in my desk drawer or anything.

Hey, wait a minute...!