Freaky Handwashing Lady, you are NOT Jesus.

No Freaky Handwashing Lady! I DON’T WANT YOU TO WASH MY HANDS! I don’t CARE if the salt in your crazy fancy hand scrub is from the dead sea! You are wearing too much makeup and it frightens me. You are offending my olfactory senses with your excessive perfume. I think your random sink in the middle of the mall makes no sense and it disturbs my slightly obsessive sense of order and how things should be arranged in my world. As does your affinity for washing stranger’s hands.

I SEE the poor helpless suckers that are naïve enough to stop to talk to you.  These poor people wander over to you.  Maybe to ask for directions. Maybe because they think your sink is some swanky water fountain with a perfumed, slightly elderly attendant. Maybe they are perplexed as to why there is a sink in the middle of the mall and have come to ask if there is a new viral epidemic.  It doesn’t matter. These pitiful souls wander over and BAM! They are snatched into the clutch of your manicured fingers as you garble some hypnotic vagueness about the wonders of dead sea minerals and air jet extraction of insoluble mineral particles.  They stand there in a daze, as though not quite aware of their surrounding, their clouded eyes not quite believing this is happening as you open your jar and massage the mixture into their now stiff and trembling hands.  They catch my eyes as I observe them safely through the wire lattice of the “Things Engraved” keychain stand.  “Help meee!” their wide, dazed eyes cry as the scent of cold pressed essential oils wafts through the air.  Alas, there is no helping them now.  They are already in your clutches, Freaky Handwashing Lady. They stumble away aimlessly, violated and scarred.  

Are you some sort of pathological germaphobe who went off her anti-psychotic medication? Are you a modern female version of Jack the Ripper with an intense fetish for unhygienic men and this is how you scout out your victims? What the hell kind of person agrees to this job? Who on earth thinks “Oh yes! I want to wash other people’s fithy, nasty, nose-picking, butt-scratching, money-handling, sweaty hands for a living?”

Do you labour under the delusion that you’re some sort of reincarnation of Jesus and this is the only way you could think of to make your random limb-washing acceptable in these modern times?