Eliminate the Middleman

I am a no-nonsense kind of gal. I do not like when people beat around the bush, although I like to giggle behind my hand at that phrase. I like a direct approach. If two plus two equals four (and most of my research is leaning toward that conclusion), then I want you to break it to me quickly. Just tell me.
I do not like making a big production out of simple tasks. If I want to chop an onion (and boy oh boy, do I), I will just pull the saber from the handy sheath attached to my belt and chop it. I will not dig through the cabinet in search of the food processor.
I do not like to do things that require too many steps. If a recipe calls for more ingredients than I can recite in one breath, I’m not going to use it. This, of course, assumes I cook, which causes me to laugh so heartily that I am left breathless and thus unable to gasp out the name of even one ingredient. If somehow I turn into an alcoholic, I’m just going to have to live with the consequences, because I will not be very happy with a 12-step program. (Besides, I hate anything that calls itself a “program”.)
So you get the point. I am beating around the bush (teehee) to make the point that I do not like to beat around the bush. Feel free to call me a hypocrite.
A while ago I was chatting with someone who works in the yoga studio that is unfortunately situated in the same building that houses my apartment. I told him that as much as I don’t like seeing people toting around their mats, I could certainly understand it because it’s rather revolting to use mats that other people have used. He thought he was assuaging my disgust by telling me, “Well, here we wash the mats once every two days or so.”
Hmmm. Once every two days or so. Once … every … two … days or so. The studio offers how many classes a day? Come on. I know they’re popular classes, because I can hear the collective chants here in my apartment. (Does that also mean they can hear me yelling for them to shut the fuck up?) So how many sweaty backs, dirty feet, damp asses, oily noses, and chapped lips come in contact with the absorbent surface of the mats? And aren’t the mats used on wooden floors that are trod upon by scores of bare feet or shoes that have just come in from the less than spankin’ clean streets and far from sparklin’ sidewalks of New York City? (The streets here, dreamers, are not paved with gold.)
“When you think about it,” (and again that’s quite presumptuous), I said, “these people may as well just lick each other’s asses. I mean, one person uses the mat in an 8:00 class and her sweaty ass is all over the mat. She doesn’t wipe it down after she’s done, and replaces the mat in the pile. Someone in a 9:00 class takes that same mat, and during the course of the class, her face, and, by extension, her mouth, is bound to be pressed onto it. As she’s focusing on, like, her warrior pose, she licks her lips quickly because she’s sweating. So essentially, isn’t she licking the 8:00 student’s ass-sweat from her lips?”
He looked at me as if to say, “Omm.”
I suppose this sort of situation is related to the “six degrees of separation” or Kevin Bacon phenomenon. I call it “eliminating the middleman”.
I once worked in an office where a certain woman lawyer was known for her practice of not washing her hands in the rest room after performing other activities that render it an absolute necessity. This woman, whom I’ll just call “K”, kept a glass candy jar filled with loose M&Ms on a shelf in her tastefully appointed office. The candy was there for whomever wanted it. And many did, including K herself. But how many of those who indulged, I always wondered, realized that, by putting one of those M&Ms into their mouths, they may just as well have “gone down” on K?
Here’s the progression/procession: K pees. She wipes. She does not wash her hands. She puts her hand in the M&M jar and jostles up a handful of the mix, thus depositing a bit of her snatch into the snack. Someone else comes along. We’ll just call her “W”. That person puts her hand into the candy jar, rustles up some M&Ms, and pops them into her mouth. W’s fingers have just touched the same candy on which K’s fingers have just lingered. Therefore, K stuff is transferred to W’s mouth.
When you get down to it, W is really just going down on K.
This morning, Shana curled up on my chest and caressed my face with her soft, tender paw. I kissed the pad of that paw. The same paw that, earlier that morning, I heard digging in and scuttling through several inches of kitty litter. So, knowing my own penchant for completing a task in the least possible number of steps, and applying my own theory of eliminating the middleman, I may as well have just stuck my lips into her litter box. So I did.
And then I licked a doorknob that my freshly washed hand had just touched, to wash out my mouth.
Simplify, simplify, simplify, I always say.