Watch what I did yesterday and tell me if I should get tested.
“Khalid, I am stepping out to get some milk and tomatoes,” I told my husband.
“I will come with you,” he said.
I took all the precautions public health officials are telling us to use. And those of you who know me, know that I am the most compliant person—compliant to the extent of driving everyone around me a bit crazy.
I picked up a canvas shopping bag, fresh out of the washer-dryer; stuffed my beige cross-body bag with single use handi wipes, a mask, a pair of latex gloves, and neatly folded tissues in the outer-pocket for easy grab. I donned on my coat and walked out of the apartment to the elevator.
“Don’t touch the elevator button,” I gasped as Khalid reached out. I then took out my tissue and used it to press the button. Getting in the elevator, I again used the tissue to press the ‘lobby’ button. I had averted two catastrophes.
Remember to throw the tissue away as soon as you exit the building.
We walked out of the lobby, using the same tissue to push the revolving door. I made my way to the garbage bin at the end of the block.
The cold wind hit my fact. ‘Achoo.’ I sneezed. And put the tissue to my nose.
You didn’t! You didn’t! You did.
Khalid was two steps ahead of me and hadn’t noticed. No need to tell him. He will just worry.
I tossed the sneezey tissue in the garbage, crossed the street, and we walked two blocks to the grocery store.
“We are not going to Morton Williams,” I tell him. “It has cramped space at the cashier. Let’s go to Gristedes, it is more open and the lines are shorter.”
“Sure,” Khalid obliged.
“But first let’s go to the roadside vendor for the veggies. There is less contact there.”
We get to the roadside vendor, an Arab guy who Khalid has gotten to know quite well.
“We can’t touch the tomatoes with our bare hands. Who knows who, with what, has been handling them.”
Khalid pulls off one of the little plastic bags (not banned for roadside vendors), blows into it, and making a glove out of it, hands it to me. I dig my hand inside the clean bag and pick out the tomatoes. How about an avocado too! I then dangle them at the vendor, “How much?”
“Four dollars,” he says.
I invert the veggies into my canvas bag and discard the plastic bag. I dig my clean hands in my wallet. I don’t have change. I don’t want to touch the dollar bill he will hand out. Who know who has handled it.
“Keep the change,” I hand him a five-dollar bill.
We walk to Gristedes. “We have to dash in-and-out,” I tell Khalid.
I snake my way to the dairy section, grab the farthest container, say a ‘thank you’ to the young man stocking the shelves, and rush to the cashier. I stay way back from the woman in line. As soon as she has checked out, the cashier beckons me. I nod, waiting for the woman to leave the counter, and then place the milk on the conveyor belt. I dig out my wallet.
You didn’t! You did!
I had picked up the milk with my BARE HANDS. I was supposed to put on my gloves, or at best, use a tissue. And I had just put my possible-infected hands on my wallet and was now handling my credit card with the same hands.
No use crying over spilt milk. Just grab the milk and sanitize everything when you get home.
I put the milk in my canvas bag, avoiding the veggies, and we walk out.
Don’t touch your hand to your face.
The cold wind hits me and I sneeze (I am a sneezer). A woman walking by quickly darts away from me. I grab a fresh tissue from my bag.
Good girl.
I dutifully discard the tissue in the garbage bin by the corner, and we walk home. I use a fresh tissue to push open the revolving door.
“You have a package,” the concierge says.
“I will get the package, you get the mail,” Khalid says.
Now how do I handle this?
I place the grocery bag on the counter and fumble for my keys. I still have the used tissue in my hand with no place to discard it.
My hands may be infected; my tissue may be infected. What’s the point?
I fan out the keys, select the mailbox key, stick my hand in the box (infected box?), and pull out the mail (infected mail?). Khalid walks up holding the cardboard package.
The virus stays on cardboard for 24 hours.
“Khalid, you should wash your hands as soon as we walk in. Probably after you open the carton. And let’s dispose it ASAP.”
See how difficult it is to live with someone like me!
Tissue to the elevator call button, tissue to the floor button, unlock the door, place the stuff on the counter, discard tissue, change out of the woolies, open the mail envelopes, shake out the mail, and discard the envelopes and carton.
Wash hands with soap and hot water.
Wash veggies with soap and water.
Use disinfectant wipe to clean handle of milk bottle.
Use disinfectant to wipe wallet'; and wipe credit card avoiding the magnetic strip.
Wash keys with soap and water.
Throw canvas bag in washing machine.
Done.
So, let’s take stock. I know everything I did wrong, despite me. Why didn’t I use the gloves and handi-wipes in my bag?
Am I infected? As the wise man said, “Time will tell.”
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