I hate hand sanitizer . . . though Burt’s Bees does make a nicely scented product. My PC Medical Officers would cringe, but I’ve donated to the Burkinabé every bottle of hand sanitizer I’ve ever been given, except for the Burt’s Bees spritz; and that I use solely as a face mist in an effort to kill any bacteria prone to contribute to an unsightly facial blemish.

On the two sides of the hand sanitizer fence there are the opponents who believe that certain amounts of good bacteria are necessary for good health. Proponents for sanitizer use cite the transmission of microbes from hand to mouth, the likelihood of which, here in The B.F., indeed is difficult to dispute. I like to consider myself a believer in the need for friendly microbes . . . a true activist for nature’s own defenses: our old pals, good bacteria. But the reality is that I’m merely in denial.

I, the volunteer who shakes hands with every single child I encounter. Children with foodstuff, dirt, mucus, and who knows what else all over their little paws. I touch anything and everything. I pet donkey ears. Only when my hands actually feel dirty, showing visible dirt, do I pause to wash.

And I wonder why I’m spending a fortune on toilet paper. Ah, the eColi diet. I rinse but very, very rarely do I bleach veggies that are destined for the chef’s pan. I don’t bleach my drinking water, though I do filter it. I do bleach lettuce, when lettuce is available, for salads; but otherwise Pô’s bounty from nature goes directly into my pans. And I wonder why I spent so much time in my W.C.

How many eColi will fit on the head of a pin? My guess is that it’s about ten times as many as required to begin the come to Jesus conversation with my G.I. tract. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I can eat almost anything here knowing that it will sortie long before any significant caloric intake.

On the other hand, why are my new jeans so tight? Is it the sanitary conditions under which beer is bottled? Six hundred years ago, how did they make pins? We can only speculate.