One hand, wash other

I don't want to seem too obvious. I linger a little too long in the cosmetics aisle. I snatch a box of mascara from its display hook, pretending to read the ingredients. I scan the nearby shelves for my true desire. 

Hand. Sanitizer.

I mill around a bit longer and meander through the inventory. I take a leisurely stroll through Seasonal and consider buying so Easter' s-Coming Confections. 

I drop a box of sugary-pink marshmallow bunnies into the basket I've slung over the crook of my elbow ... the very one I TRY to sneeze into when the urge strikes.

Its outer cellophane crackles against my shopping-list camouflage - a greeting card, a bottle of hand soap, and a box of toothpaste. 

I rethink.

Better not tempt fate, I decide as I return the candy to the shelf, and tip the container neatly back into position.

I wonder if anyone noticed?

I take another lap of the store. I grab some sanitizing cloths from the detergent aisle and land in front of the hand soaps, which have a different home than either bar soaps or body washes. I read the labels fruitlessly. 

Where would they be?

No one has asked me if I'm finding everything I need. But then again, the store seems empty of people as well as its usual stock of anti-microbial potions. 

I hike through the baby aisle, past the digestives, and into incontinence. I traipse through the vitamins, the cold remedies, and foot care. At long last, I find First Aid. 

Among the cotton balls and the bandages, I see a single box of antibacterial scrub – the kind you'd use to prep for surgery or clean an open wound.

It's not what I want.

But it's close, and for a moment, I consider it until something catches my eye in the shadows as if it had been hidden. I reach back and find a little spray bottle. "24-hour Hand Sanitizer" its label claims in a no-nonsense font.

Two ounces … Ten dollars. "Sold," I say to myself, furtively slipping the bottle under the other items in the basket.

I think about the lady at the checkout in the last store and her persistent dry cough. 

Did I look worried or relieved as I pressed my card into the machine at her prompting? She didn't have to take my cash or give me change. 

Something tells me I'm not fooling anyone.

At least if the emoji eye roll texts I've gotten from my children are any indication. 

I panic a little watching a woman on YouTube who is using paint instead of soap to demonstrate how most people miss vast areas of their hands when they wash them.

Up until that moment, I had been satisfied just to hear the water run from a faucet AFTER hearing the flush of a toilet.

I have failed as a mother, I think, as I forward the video link to both kids.

Immediately, my phone lights up: "I KNOW how to wash my HANDS, MOM - JEEEEEZE!"

AND I might suggest you NOT try to wipe away smudges on my face by LICKING YOUR FINGER. That's just gross!

Green-faced emoji heads start to blink on my screen before I shut it down and slip it back into my pocket.

"Ingrates," I murmur to myself as I make a final lap of the store, thinking a moisturizer to combat the dry and scaly skin all this increased handwashing has wrought will round out my panic-caused purchases quite nicely.

Until I read the label and realize that the hand cream has probiotics to counteract all the antibiotic destruction, all this hand washing may cause. …

And I feel the back of my throat start to itch.