I’m traveling right now with my dad. We’re great travel partners and enjoy each other’s company as most of the time we prefer reading our books to talking. It’s great.

While waiting for our flight to take off, we discovered something new about each other—Germaphobia. Yes, we discussed the particular challenge germaphobes face when traveling, such as how airplane bathrooms require some pretty good technique.

I’m a closet Germaphobe. I try to avoid announcing it to the world, but I fight a secret battle against the world everyday—the world of germs. My mind is constantly plagued about what I’m touching or who has touched that.

Below are some symptoms of my case of Germaphobia.

I use my knuckle to push elevator buttons.

I’ll wait by a door for someone else to open it so I don’t have to touch the handle.And if I have to touch the door, I deftly try to touch the part of the handle that is the least likely touched.

I ride subways and trains like I’m surfing a wave. (I’ve gotten pretty good at this, btw.)

When there’s a bowl of lemons next to the drink station, I look over my shoulder so nobody sees me pick up a lemon with my hand to avoid touching the tongs. Why would I touch a piece of metal every other dirty hand has touched and then use my hand to squeeze the lemon into my drink. But don’t worry. I always make sure I touch only MY lemon.

Now I recognize that germ awareness is a slippery slope. I’m not bad. I don’t have OCD. I don’t use Purell as often as you think.

But as a doctor’s daughter, I’m inherently aware of the disease all around us. After our conversation about Germaphobia, I’m coming to the conclusion that it’s genetic.

For example, after I told my dad about how I handle lemon tongs, he told me the story about how he tried to politely explain to the Spanish-speaking lunch lady in the hospital cafeteria that the spoons in the utensil cup should be positioned with the handles up. She puts them in with scoop-end up so when someone grabs a spoon, they can’t help touching the other scoop-ends of the spoons. He wasn’t sure she understood his strange request.

But my dad’s Germaphobia runs even deeper—especially when it comes to hotels. He won’t stay at a hotel unless they have a washable duvet. And if they don’t, he asks for extra sheets so he can make his own duvet out of the bed. He also grabs the complimentary plastic bags at the TSA checkpoint and puts the hotel channel changer in it so he doesn’t have to touch the buttons. On the trip we’re on now, he bought Clorox wipes to wipe down all the handles, light switches, and sink faucets. Now I’m not THAT bad, but I can’t deny I didn’t applaud his actions either.

Above all, I don’t want to be rude to others. I put a stop to it there, even if I internally suffer. I will always shake someone’s hand even though my mind thinks, “Where has this thing been?”

At times I do voice up. I try to inform others of the proper way to sneeze, which is into your elbow and not your hand. I don’t know if people always appreciate my polite rebuke. For example, after the third time I got after my good friend Adam about sneezing into his hand, we got into a little riff.

“Dude, Adam. Listen! I’ve told you a gazillion times. Sneeze into your elbow!”

“No, Jenny, you listen. You’re the reason why society has created an army of Supergerms that are immune to our medicine and antibiotics. You and your stupid Purell. It’s actually healthy for your body to be exposed to bacteria so it can build up an immunity.”

Whether I’m creating Supergerms or protecting myself from inconsiderate individuals who don’t wash their hands after using the bathrooms, I don’t know. But my advice to my readers: Don’t think about it. Once you open your eyes to the world of germs that are all around us, there’s no going back.

**So if you want to date Jenny, for goodness’ sake sneeze into your elbow! Who knows what other bad habits would scare her away.