The other day when I stopped by the package store, the first thing I heard upon walking into the store was an elephantine sneeze from the back room. The store was full of customers, and the ding-ding of my arrival bell apparently signaled the manager that too many people were now waiting in line. He hollered for help. Out came the sneezer from the back room, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.
I looked down at my already-addressed package, glad it was ready to go. I shouldn’t have to touch anything this guy touched.
Wrong. Turns out I needed to fill out the store’s form. He handed me a flowery pen, which I looked at dubiously. Should I be polite and pretend I hadn’t just heard his hack? Or wisely germophobic, refusing to touch anything he’d touched?
Almost before I’d formulated the debate, my polite southern-lady side had gingerly taken the nasty pen and prayed a prayer of germ protection. They’re everywhere, after all.
Today? I’m sneezing.
I’ll be rude next time.