Drop Dead Healthy A. Jacobs (good novels to read .TXT) 📖

antibiotics every time you get a cold. But at least in Tierno’s view, Purell and antibacterial soaps don’t cause supergerms.

Should I use antibacterial soap?

“Ordinarily, you don’t need antibacterial soap. You can get along with regular soap and warm water.” The exception is when you’re cooking foods, especially meat. Incidentally Tierno doesn’t believe that triclosan, a controversial chemical in many antibacterial soaps, poses any danger (more on toxins later).

What about a face mask?

He wears them on planes. “One time I was going to France, and I had a lady coughing right in back of me. And I asked the stewardess to have her moved to another seat because she was very sick. And the stewardess said, ‘The plane is full, I can’t.’ I didn’t have my mask, and I caught a cold three days after that.” He won’t let that happen again.

As I leave, I give him a copy of my Bible book. He thanks me, though he admits he’ll wipe it down before reading.

I walk out feeling both exhilarated and stressed out. Julie’s right. He is an enabler.

The Hygiene Hypothesis

In the interest of equal time, I decide to look into those on Julie’s side of the germ fence. Many scientists agree with her.

They’ve named their theory the Hygiene Hypothesis. The idea is that children in modern first-world countries aren’t exposed to enough germs, a situation that throws off the development of the immune system. Our immune cells don’t get the chance to learn to recognize and assassinate the bad guys. Our overly sanitized world could be responsible for the dramatic rise in allergies and asthma.

I call up an immunologist named Mary Ruebush, author of Why Dirt Is Good, a rallying cry for the Hygiene Hypothesis.

“The pendulum has swung,” she tells me. “The first few millennia of human evolution, there was no thought of cleanliness. Then, when we realized there’s a link between cleanliness and health, we went overboard.”

Like Tierno, she claims superior health. “I don’t remember having a cold or a headache, and I have absolutely no standards of hygiene whatsoever.”

I suppress my instinct to say that I’m glad this is a phone interview.

“My standard for hand washing is this: If they look dirty or smell bad, then I wash them,” she says.

Like Tierno, she has her own scary story about a plane ride.

“I sat next to an eight-year-old child who was traveling by himself. He proceeded to wipe the seat, the armrest, and the tray table before he would sit down. I was horrified.”

I tell her about how my son licked ice cream off the sidewalk. “Good for him,” she says. “He is going to be a healthy adult.”

When I get off the phone, I tell Julie about Ruebush’s thesis. “That’s a wise woman,” Julie says.

Later that night, when Julie drops a cucumber slice on the floor, she bends down to pick it up and put it on Zane’s plate.

“Hygiene Hypothesis!” she says gleefully. It’s her new catchphrase.

I decide to spend a week implementing Tierno’s Germ Battle Plan on myself. I promise Julie I’ll leave her and the kids out of it.

In his book The Secret Life of Germs, Tierno gives a list of antiseptic-living suggestions, which I’ve transcribed onto my computer. On a Wednesday morning, I begin to implement them. Here’s a small sample:

• Wipe down the phones and remote controls weekly. (Does wiping them with a moist paper towel really get the germs off? I wish I could boil my electronic equipment.)

• Soak all produce for five to ten minutes in a solution of water, hydrogen peroxide, and vinegar. (“Hydrogen peroxide?” asks our babysitter as I pour some into a bowl of apples. “Is that safe? I thought that’s what you use to dye hair.” It’s in the book, I tell her.)

• Wash underwear separately from other clothes to prevent a transfer of fecal residue.

• Dry laundry in the sun, because the UV radiation kills germs (a clothesline doesn’t work in New York, so I lay my shirts on the outside part of the air conditioner).

• Remove showerheads and clean them with a wire brush to root out legionella, the cause of Legionnaires’ disease (still have to do this).

• Vacuum curtains and upholstery regularly.

• Zap damp sponges in the microwave for one or two minutes.

• Put hypoallergenic sheets and pillowcases on your bed to keep the dust mites from snacking on your dead skin flakes, because dust mites can cause allergies. (The sheets I bought are kind of slippery, but they make me feel better. Tierno himself takes his germproof sheets with him when he goes to a hotel. I put that on my to-do list.)

It’s been half a day, and I’m not even close to finishing my list. Germ warfare is a full-time job. Though I do notice something strange. Aside from being busy, I have another feeling: righteousness.

Maybe it’s my imagination, but now I crave more order in every part of my life. I’m more annoyed when Julie’s late to dinner. I’m more concerned when my son Jasper hangs around with the rambunctious elements in his class.

Does my punctiliousness have anything to do with my germ obsession? Perhaps not. But the brain is an odd place, and it’s possible that germaphobia has colored my moral view. I read a fascinating New York Times op-ed by two scientists who argue that the more obsessed you are with germs, the more politically conservative you become.

They conducted an experiment in which they asked subjects about their “moral, social and fiscal” attitudes. “Merely standing near a hand-sanitizing dispenser led people to report more conservative political beliefs,” they write. “Apparently, the slightest signal that germs might be present is enough to shift political attitudes toward the right.”

The professors—Peter Liberman at Queens College and David Pizarro at Cornell—offer the explanation that early humans often came into contact with other tribes that harbored dangerous germs. So humans evolved to have a feeling of disgust at The Other, which helped keep interactions to a minimum. This sense of disgust