Blame my mother.

The following is a guest post by the Hygiene Hunter's daughter Lexi.

Extreme paranoia for germs can go too far. When I was younger, my best friend and I would spend our days off school with my mother. We would feel so grown up lunching at fancy restaurants and shopping at Holt Renfrew. Inevitably, the three of us would find ourselves in a painful situation. We'd be standing at a door in the parking garage with no tissue. My mother would never open the door. It was up to us.

The doorknob was the round-turny kind -- so the option of using our feet was out. We were stuck -- on more than one occasion. "Get the door," my mother would order me. Being the Hygiene Hunter's daughter, I felt I had the right to refuse such insanity. My right took the form of a whiney, "Noooo." This resulted in my mother telling my friend to open the door.

My friend felt there shouldn't be such a big fuss made about touching a doorknob. And after all, she thought Eva Polis was the coolest, so opening the parking garage door was a task worth doing. This tissueless situation kept recurring. I guess my mother expected us to learn from our past mistakes and come better prepared. We were young and foolish. Then one day, my friend said to me, "We need to talk."

It was a brief phone call and the end of our friendship. She felt like a used tissue and was no longer able to deal with the high-maintenance Hygiene Hunter and her daughter.