And then I picked my nose

"Gross."

This morning I found myself filling in at reception as the receptionist has pink eye and the back-up girl is currently at the eye doctor getting screened for pink eye. When coworkers asked what I was doing sitting up front, I quipped, "Not touching my face." Everything in front of me--the phone, the keyboard, the pen--was possibly contaminated.

And of course, not being able to touch my face made me want to really touch my face. My eyes itched and felt like crusty sleep had gathered back there since I got up this morning. I became fixated on it; I just had to wipe my eyes.

I searched and found no tissue. I looked at my sleeves and remembered the lack thereof of my cotton t-shirt. Desperate, I looked around and when I didn't see anybody, I lifted up the belly of my shirt and relieved my eyes.

It was this moment that a guest walked in the front door, wearing a familiar looking badge. "You work there?" I asked. "So does my brother."

"Well I'll be sure to tell him I saw you," the man smirked back.

Yes, I'm sure he'll be quick to tell his coworker about the girl who works reception and lifts her shirt above her head when new people come into the office. Because my brother already respects me enough.