I'm pretty meticulous about keeping my hands clean, and I'm octuply so when I'm flying. With their closed ventilation systems and fabric that's marinated in human filth for 30 unwashed years, airplanes look pretty much like giant maxi-pads to me. (With wings, naturally.) I refuse to eat on planes if my fingers have so much as brushed my tongue-depresser of an armrest.
It amazes me, then, to see what I saw at O'Hare. I was washing my hands, naturally, while an unseen guy in a stall was grunting and moaning as if in enormous pain, then relief. He finally finished his business, exited the stall, and walked straight out of the bathroom, presumably to resume tossing pizza dough. I felt positively woozy.
After I nestled into my first class seat, I massaged Purell on to my hands. Gotta kill what I can. The stewardess asked if I would like a warm cookie. Why yes, it's as if you can hear my thoughts, I would very much like a warm cookie. In fact, you can assume that this is my default state. The long-term forecast calls for John wanting a warm cookie for the duration of the warm cookies, and for a good while longer after that.
And then with a familiar grunt, the bathroom moaner plopped into the aisle seat next to me.
The stewardess tried to put the cookie on the armrest between our seats, but Dr. Dook would have none of that. He thoughtfully grabbed the plate, taking care to place his thumb on my cookie as he handed it to me.
"You can have it. I'm not feeling well," I said, not remotely lying.