When I was a kid, I never bathed. We had this river out back that we jumped into instead. The river was cleaner than the tap water. I know this because crawdads thrived in the river, but died in the bathtub. (This was part of my first scientific study, which has not yet been published.) The Vickers kids were spotless and smelled slightly of algae.
In high school, I grew my hair out and hated dealing with it. Not because it was long, but because my dad made me use some kind of hair oil to get it out of my eyes. I hated to wash it. One reason why was that blow dryers had not yet been invented, so I had to try to dry it by nuzzling up to a little natural gas heater in the bathroom. Ever smell burnt hair?
In college—an all-male college—dirt was required. The whole school was a locker room, a wonderful natural habitat for 19-year-old pseudo-intellectuals like me.
Then, I was in optometry school, and suddenly I was expected to be clean. I had to wash my hands no matter what I did. I even had to wash my hands when I was forced—totally against my will—to learn how to surface and edge lenses, which I actually enjoy now because it’s as relaxing as hugging a sock monkey.
In the clinic? Lord, I had to wash my hands every time I touched anything. MRSA and hand sanitizer were not invented yet, which probably means hand sanitizer invented MRSA. We did, however, have soap … typically a big ol’ hairy, slimy bar of soap. There were apparently a lot of hairy-knuckled optometry students in Philadelphia. I’m quite certain the soap stood no chance against whatever was stuck on it by the time I wrapped my little, bald fingers around it.
Of course, soap is an integral part of medicine. As doctors, we try to diligently wash our hands, maybe just as much for our protection as for the patient’s. After all, they look a little swine flu-ish sometimes.
So, we buy gallons and gallons of soap. Every time it’s on sale, I fill up a shopping cart. You get some seriously weird stares when your shopping cart contains 30 bottles of hand soap, 20 bottles of hand sanitizer, 12 bottles of wine, and duct tape (you can never have too much of that). They think I am a very hygienic, alcoholic kidnapper.
Now, every room in my office is filled with squirt bottles of soap and hand sanitizer. Have you ever seen a contact lens patient insert a lens after a dose of hand sanitizer? I’ve learned some of my best dance moves by watching them as the ethyl alcohol plus contact lens blew their eyes up. Makes the visit coded medical in a hurry, but I still don’t recommend it. After a couple of these contact lens watusi contests (which I think would be perfect for YouTube), we hid the hand sanitizer. Now it’s only for doctors and runny-nosed 6-year-olds.
All this cleanliness has seeped into my neurology, so now I am obsessive about washing. My shower routine includes:
• A soap bar made of oatmeal and extra virgin olive oil for my well-worn hands and feet.
• A second soap bar made of lavender for my torso, applied with love as I wear a pair of loofah gloves.
• Assorted shampoos and conditioners that smell of grass (the legal kind!) and honey.
• An all-natural shave gel that prevents nicks and ingrown hairs.
• An in-shower body moisturizer.
I get some very interesting looks when my wife tells a patient that I am now “metrosexual.” I don’t think they actually know what that means.
Now, I am clean, gelled, oiled and somebody’s optometrist. But, I gotta go wash my hands. Some kid was here. He smelled like he just came out of a river.