I can’t stop touching my face

It is human nature that, when told not to do something, even if it is for our own good (no more slouching, cursing, or complaining, don’t eat carbs, stop staring at your cellphone) that thing, more than anything else in the world, is what we want — no, need — to do.

And so it is with the coronavirus.

In Atlantic Canada, where water is just a tap-turn away, it is easy to follow the widespread advice to wash your hands whenever possible. We can, if we so choose, avoid crowds, and foreign travel, particularly into the plague zones.

But have you actually tried not to touch your face?

In the seconds it took me to write that sentence I’ve knucklerubbed a nostril, scratched at my hairline and my ear, run the back of my wrist across my chin, and, for no obvious reason, dug the heel of my palm deep into my orbital cavity, then rotated it back and forth, as if trying to kill something.

Every one of those movements was done thoughtlessly, instinctually. I didn’t go, “Lord, my temple is itchy; I should relieve that slightly unpleasant feeling by taking my index finger and applying it to the afflicted area.” It just happened, as naturally as breathing; I’m only aware that I did them at all because the subject is on my mind because of this column.

Which, of course, is a problem from the World Health Organization’s way of seeing things.

I know what they say: that viruses, including COVID19 can linger on surfaces like doorknobs, cellphone screens and elevator buttons for a long time. And that every time you touch your nose, mouth or eyes you risk letting those viruses enter your body, where they can wreak havoc. Except it is hard, really hard, to stop bringing fingers to face.

Not for everyone maybe. But I now known that I’m touching my mug as often, and in as many different ways, as a third-base coach, getting ready to move some runners around. I’m like Seth Rogan, “realizing basically all I do is touch my face.”

I learned from close observation that I have my different techniques: the feral scratching around the mouth and nostrils; the weary eye rubbing; the tender, contemplative stroking of the cheeks.

That my state of mind is reflected by a series of hand-toface nervous tics: an impatient rubbing of the forehead; two fingers brought to the lips, like a Jane Austen heroine, when digesting an unpalatable piece of information; a scratching of the

Shelburne:

chin, eyes focused heavenward, when gathering my thoughts.

My normal position of repose is chin perched on top of interlaced fingers, or left side of my face cradled in my left hand — both of which I believe to be close enough to the orifices to be frowned upon by the WHO. I know that I didn’t come out of the womb making like Rodin’s The Thinker. But I’ve been doing what I do for a long, long time, and habits like that are hard to break.

I read an article in the New York Times that offered some practical advice on how not to touch your face: keep a box of Kleenex handy; identify triggers to your compulsive behavior; squeeze one of those little stress balls which, at the very least, keeps your hands occupied. Since two of those techniques involved going out to a store where plague-carrying folks are known to gather, I decided to just go cold turkey and, by pure force of will, abstain from potentially lethal face touching.

I turned on the stopwatch on my cellphone to see how bad the problem actually is, and lasted precisely 5.33 seconds before jamming the index finger of my left hand into my left ear.

I rubbed my nose a couple of times and tried again. This time, with a Herculean display of selfcontrol, and some detail-oriented coffee making to distract me, I almost got to five minutes before losing it.

Remembering that old adage about idle hands being the devil’s workshop, I tried sitting down at the laptop, typing the words for this article.

Before long a vicious circle began: the more distracted I got, the more my guard let down. Next thing I knew I was back to my old habitual ways. My face and I are old friends. But it’s starting to look like a toxic relationship.