I’ll admit it. I’m a hypochondriac.  I come from a long line of hypochondriacs.  Everyone in my family.  We’re all convinced we’re dying.  Thing is, we’re right.  We just don’t know from what yet.

 

My father is perhaps the biggest hypochondriac of them all (although in fairness to Pops, I’m a very close second).  The difference between us is the based on the number of times we go to the doctor each week.  My wife and I pay for our own insurance, and our deductible is about 1 Bazillion dollars.  Therefore, I don’t go to the doctor unless people who aren’t hypochondriacs say to me, “Dude, you need to go to the doctor . . . like now!”

 

My father, on the other hand, takes a different approach.  His view of the world is: “Why do I need an apple a day if I’m on Medicare?”  If the doctor examines him and says there’s nothing wrong, my dad’s response is: “Try again.  You’re not looking hard enough.”  And, by the way, it doesn’t matter what the doctor finds, so long as he or she finds something.  Tell my dad he’s fine, and his response is “that’s not fine.”  Tell him he has an inflamed uterus, and he’ll say, “okay, well, at least we now know what the problem is.”

 

Why is he like this?  I don’t know.  In part, I think because my dad is an engineer by training.  A scientist.  He likes to know how things work, including his own self.  He wants to know what parts go where, how they interact, whether they could work better and why aren’t they working better.  Also, I think he likes to debate with other men of science.  Although on the surface, he doesn’t like it when the doctor informs him that he’s wrong, secretly, I think, he relishes it.  Those situations provide him with an opportunity to debate.  And, as an engineer (and a lawyer), arguing with precision and exacting detail to him is like a day at the beach.  Finally, I think he likes the doctor’s office, because he likes the attention.

 

But, as much as I like to tease my dad, and his love of visiting the doctor, I digress.  The point I was simply trying to make is that my dad and I are hypochondriacs (I have now been prohibited by my wife from reading any medical articles in newspapers or on the Internet because I instantly develop whatever malady or symptoms are described in said articles).

 

As hypochondriacs, we are keenly aware of germs — especially other people’s germs.  And, in case you didn’t know it, people are filthy.  You’ve heard the term “filthy pig,” yes?  Well, they should revise it.  That expression should be “filthy person.”  People are disgusting.  Nauseatingly and terrifyingly disgusting.

 

You know it’s true.  You see it everyday.  The guy who picks his nose in the office and then shakes people’s hand.  The people that use the bathroom and don’t wash their hands.  The people who projectile sneeze.  And, so on.

 

Worst of all, people have no manners.  So, not only are they dirty and germ-filled, they’re rudely spreading those germs.  Witness how people act at buffets. Do you not see the serving spoon?  The tongs?  What makes you think that this food has been placed there so that you can dip your disgusting, bubonic-plague ridden claws into the bowl of croutons?  You think that was put there as finger food so that you could dip your hands in there and turn the bowl into a petri dish of disease so toxic and viral that the bowl melts?  Is that what you think?

 

I tell you what.  Why don’t we skip a step.  Why don’t you stick your cootie-ridden fingers right into my mouth?  That way, we’ll cut down on the chance that you miss your opportunity to spread your horrendousness to me?

 

Or, alternatively, you could wipe your nose with a tissue, wash your hands, and keep your paws to yourself.