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March 28, 2024
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Humorous

My Hand-Washing Journal

8:30 A.M.

Having learned that the twenty seconds required for a thorough antivirus hand washing can be timed by singing “Happy Birthday” twice, I start to sing as I lather up. I’m grateful for the “Happy Birthday” information: checking your wristwatch while washing your hands can be awkward, and, let’s face it, it’s an invitation to splash. However, as I try to think of someone whose birthday is anywhere near today, I lose track of where I was in the song. The hand washing is aborted.

8:42 A.M.

I think about calling the C.D.C. to see if they have come up with any alternate songs. But I figure that the folks over there have a lot on their plate, what with constantly having to concoct diplomatic ways to correct the President and all. I don’t want to tie up their phone line.

8:48 A.M.

I’ve decided to sing “Happy Birthday” to my cousin Keith, who reached the finals of the Kansas State Spelling Bee in what must have been around 1956. I don’t have any reason to believe that Keith’s birthday is approaching or just passed, but I’ve never thought that he got enough acclaim for that achievement back in Kansas. True, Keith didn’t actually win the Kansas State Spelling Bee; he just reached the finals. Still, that was obviously the standout academic achievement of our family, even if you count my cousin Neil’s selection as the head drum major of the University of Nebraska marching band. So I sing the first “Happy Birthday” to my cousin Keith, and then I realize that I don’t have anyone in mind for the second go-around. I’m stuck with saying “one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi,” etc., to finish out the twenty seconds. It makes me feel like a third-grader playing hide-and-seek.

9:25 A.M.

Having realized that I can choose my own alternatives to “Happy Birthday”—it’s what they now call D.I.Y.—I decide that a short Glasgow street song might fill the bill. (How I happen to know a few Glasgow street songs is a long story that I don’t have the time to tell now that I’m so busy figuring out what to sing while washing my hands.) I time “Ye Cannae Shove Yer Granny Aff the Bus,” but it clocks in at fifteen seconds—not enough for a thorough wash. I try “Ma Maw’s a Millionaire,” but it turns out to be almost the same length. I time a song from the University of Missouri Savitar Frolics of 1953, “I’d Rather Be Nowhere Than Somewhere Where You Are ’Cause Darling You’re Nowhere Tonight.” Too long. Thinking that a ballad might be soothing, considering the situation, I start to time “Woman I Love You But Them Crooked Stockings Got to Go,” but I can’t seem to remember the next line of the lyrics. Temporarily stymied, I wash my hands while singing “Happy Birthday” to Anthony Fauci twice.

10:00 A.M.

I’ve decided to stick with “Happy Birthday,” and I’m starting with the people in my high-school class, most of whom I haven’t seen in years. As I wish each person a happy birthday—Dogbite Donnelly and Rashy Gordon are the first two names that come to me—I wonder what that person is up to these days. I imagine them barbecuing in their back yards or waving from a sailboat or sitting on the beach; it’s sort of a sudsy version of Facebook. When I get through with all the high-school classmates I can remember, I intend to go through the lineup of the Kansas City Blues the year they won the American Association pennant, besting such teams as the Minneapolis Millers and the Toledo Mud Hens. After that, I’ll start on my college class. This thing could go on for a long time.

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