Germaphobe Chronicles (Couples Edition): Our Life as the Pen-Hating, Laundry-Obsessed Sarkies

Let’s get one thing straight: I’m not alone in my germaphobe life. My wife is right there with me, hand sanitizer holstered like it’s the Old West. We are equal-opportunity avoiders of anything potentially slimy, sneezy, or socially shared. Before sarcoidosis entered my life and before COVID became the main character in everyone’s story, we were already that couple. You know the type. The ones quietly judging you for licking your thumb to turn a page. The ones side-stepping communal pens with the precision of a bomb squad. And if you’re wondering—yes, we’ve been this way for years.

Now, thanks to sarcoidosis turning my immune system into something that only theoretically exists, our vigilance has skyrocketed. We’re not just germ-aware—we’re on high-alert, DEFCON wanders-near-a-cough-level tension. While most people decided hand sanitizer was cool around 2020, we were carrying travel-size bottles way back when it brought side-eye. Heck, we probably invented the side-eye.

Let’s talk wardrobe. I’m not saying I change clothes every time I blink, but if I step outside—even just to walk the dog—I will absolutely toss that outfit straight into the wash when I come back inside. No exceptions. It doesn’t matter if it’s a five-minute stroll because Princess Paws could only pee on the same blade of grass three times—we are washing everything. My wife supports this with all the passion of someone who’s equally convinced that door handles are conspiracy-level contagion devices. And yes, we have a laundry routine so disciplined it could be taught in military academies.

Public pens are still the worst. If you’re immunosuppressed like me, it’s no longer a quirky habit—it’s survival. Those communal pens? They are germ sticks. They are bacterial soup. They are tiny cylindrical warheads aimed right at your face. It’s not paranoia—it’s observation. Observation fueled by experience, imagination, and a deep distrust of anyone letting their kid lick the shopping cart handle. (We’ve seen it. It haunts us.)

Yesterday at the chiropractor, I watched a woman casually use the shared pen to fill out her form, then pop the end in her mouth. Not only that—she had a cold sore that could double as a landmark. That’s when I mentally walked out and into a hot shower. I was speechless. My immune system was screaming, my wife recoiled, and we both watched in silent terror as she chewed her pen cap like it was a mint. That’s when I decided: enough. I’m going back to carrying my own pen everywhere.

Years ago, my beloved Palm PDA had a stylus-pen combo—a germaphobe’s Excalibur. Now I’ve got an iPhone and zero built-in pen. So we found the Derringer Wallet Pen. A small, sleek, “James Bond but make it sanitary” kind of pen that fits right into your wallet. I ordered two. Not because I’m forgetful (though I am), but because one could be contaminated and we need to burn it. They’re $7.95, and I’ll buy them in bulk if it keeps me from signing my name with the same pen someone used to scratch their butt earlier.

Because let’s be real: every time you pick up that communal pen, you might as well shake hands with the last 100 strangers who used it and didn’t wash them. I can’t stop you—though I will judge you—but at least I’m writing this with clean hands and my own pen. And changing my shirt immediately after.

Now if you’re curious whether we’re too extreme, let me ask you something: are you absolutely certain that pen hasn’t been used as a back scratcher, chew toy, or multi-purpose tool at the DMV this morning? Didn’t think so. Think before you ink, my friends. Especially if you’re a fellow sarkie or just enjoy the thrill of not getting sick.

If any of this resonates, or if you too are incapable of wearing the same outfit twice without laundering… well, you’re among friends here. Drop a comment. Tell us your germaphobe confession. Or just subscribe and join our Clean Hands Club—virtual high fives only.

So…

Now that you’ve finished reading this, go change your shirt. And tell me in the comments: are you a fellow germ-avoider, or are you one of those “it builds immunity” people we fear in line at the post office? Hit subscribe—we’ll send soap.