Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty stupid

So I go outside for a walk this afternoon and just as I come to the end of the block, a bird craps on my hand. (I love birds.) Now, it wasn’t a big old white crap. (If that had happened, I don’t know what I would have done. Dunked my hand in bleach? Cut my hand off? Just the part the bird crapped on? It’s a toss-up.) Instead it was one of those fruity craps that the birds have been leaving all over my car when I park it under that tree with the berries.

Nonetheless, the bird excrement on my hand does cause me concern. I continue walking but I look at it and wonder if I should turn around, walk back to my house, and wash my hand. I am always challenging myself not to be as neurotic as I have been in the past. I was faced with one of those moments and the dilemma was playing out in my head.

Am I going to walk for a half an hour with bird crap on my hand?
It’s not the really nasty crap.
Still it’s crap.
But I’m not doing anything with my hand.
What if I have to reach in my pocket for my phone?
I can reach with my other hand.
To the other side of my pants? That’s weird.
I won’t need my phone.
I’m just going to let bird crap dry on my hand?
I won’t be out long.

I am getting better about my fastidiousness. Like, for example, say my brother is in town and we’re at our parents’ house and he offers to make me a sandwich. I’ll totally let him. I won’t ask that he wash his hands first. I will suppress the instinct to calculate when the last time he washed them was. I mean, if I’ve just seen him play with the dog, I’ll insist on a washing, but otherwise I’m cool with a little dirt. At least under extenuating circumstances.

Or say Lil’ Smell wears her raver pants out in the rain and the cuffs get all wet and she comes home and sits on the couch with her legs tucked under her so the wet part of the pants is all on the cushion. I won’t say anything about it. At least, not for a few weeks until I write about it in an unrelated blog entry. After all, it’s not my couch she’s sitting on, you know.

As I approached the physical and metaphorical Stop sign this afternoon, I wondered: am I really so concerned with a little fruity bird shit on my hand? A hand that’s just going to swing there while I walk? When I won’t even be out of the house that long? What’s a clean hand going to do for me anyway? I’m going to wash them when I get home eventually. It’s not like I’m going out to eat right now. I mean, really. C’mon, Todd.

I sized myself up and I knew what I was made of.

So I walked home and washed my hands.