To outsiders, America’s mania for hygiene is quite extraordinary. When I moved to New York a year ago, I was astonished at what I would occasionally see on the subway: commuters carrying MoistWipes (tiny hand towels laced with antimicrobial detergents) to clean off the residue left on seats and poles by previous riders. Some even refused to touch the poles, instead hugging them with their jackets or some other makeshift bacterial body condom. I’d regarded such people as aliens–until one day last summer when I was riding the No. 9 train downtown with a friend. Armed with a miniature bottle of sanitizer, she proceeded to give her hands a quick squirt every time she touched anything. Touch, squirt. Touch, squirt.
Not even the hardiest Americans are immune from such squeamishness. I remember my rugby teammates at university in California. Often they’d refuse water at halftime, fearing the gallon jugs we shared might convey unhealthy microbes from the mouths of others. They’d rather stay parched–or get beaten to a pulp, for that matter–than ingest a gentle germ or two. So you hardly ever see those “old-fashioned” twist-off water-bottle tops anymore. It’s just those blasted germ-unfriendly nozzle-top contraptions, which let you guzzle “accurately” without oral-plastic contact. (I don’t know about you, but I always end up with more liquid on my shirt than in my mouth.) And in the locker room? Soap–forget it. I grew up sharing it, using any handy bar that was lying around. After all, soap is soap–a cleansing product. Isn’t it therefore fair to assume it would clean itself? (I’m sure there’s a scientific term for this.) Yet in America, people–even mud-caked rugby players–think I’m a freak, as if I were sharing a dirty syringe.
Hygiene is such an obsession that we brand it. Walk into any drugstore and what do you see? Nice ’n’ Clean lotions. Wash Away Your Sins towelettes. PhoneKleen telephone disinfectant pads. Purell sanitizers (“Kills 99.9% of Germs”). Rembrandt’s Antibacterial Breath Drops. Products, products, products. Some people even turn them into verbs. They don’t just disinfect the bathroom; they “Mr. Clean” it. You know the mold that was growing on the shower curtain? “I ‘Fantastiked’ it right off.” I can’t wait until I hear about someone who just “Finazzled” his toilet. Or who just “Finished” in it.
I dread to think what this might imply for future social relations. For one friend in her mid-20s, Saturday night doesn’t necessarily mean a wild night on the town. A nice bottle of merlot, a vacuum cleaner and some industrial-strength detergent, she confesses, are all she needs for a good time. (Could that be why we’re losing touch?) And what about day-to-day interactions? Will we still shake hands in 20 years? After all, who knows which of the shakers didn’t thrice wash their hands. Sexual contact is even at risk. To side-splitting laughter, a friend recently spilled the beans on an acquaintance of hers who insists on showering right before sex. Hold the mood. Hold the passion. In mid-kiss, the guy heads for the showers. Every time.
Americans have become so accustomed to ultracleanliness that they expect it everywhere. Eavesdrop at a hotel reception around the world, and without fail an American will complain: The tap water’s got scum (calcium, perhaps?) floating in it! Are you sure you put enough chlorine in the pool? My eyes aren’t stinging! And only an American can understand the disappointment of walking into a motel bathroom and finding a toilet that hasn’t been gift-wrapped with a comforting, SANITIZED FOR YOUR PROTECTION covering. It is the American’s God-given right to be clean and to see clean–or else. Consider yet another close friend. Upon entering a messy house, she is often deeply offended. Does she complain? No. She simply sets about tidying it.
Perhaps I’m phobic about phobics. But Americans do live in a world apart when it comes to bacteria. And as much as they’d like the rest of the globe to conform, it probably won’t. A few years ago, an American visiting my parents’ home in Britain was perplexed to discover spiders nesting with their babies in the corner of our bathroom. Unhygienic? Yes, well, they keep the flies away, my father explained. “And they’re loads of fun to watch.” Maybe he should have rushed up and “Fantastiked” the poor things. But I’m glad he didn’t. Relieved, also, that our fussy friend didn’t notice the three-inch slimy slug crawling along the hallway. That would have been harder to justify.
