Air Attack

I have this thing against the air.
I know it’s vital to my well-being, but I don’t like when things “touch the air too much.” Like food that has sat out for a little while – way too much air has touched it for me to want to eat. And bars of soap: surrounded by air – infested by air.
Or these containers I found on my bathroom counter this morning… that hair gunk has been touching the air all night. I feel like it would stick to my hair, pull things into my hair, wrap its air-infected livelihood around my strands of hair. And the tip of that drop bottle could go nowhere near my eye… there’s air all over it.
To each their own – of course. If air doesn’t bother other people, then – by all means – dip a big scoop out of that peanut butter jar whose lid has been half-screwed-on for days or scrub your teeth with the open-capped toothpaste. (I don’t even want to think about the fact that your toothbrush touched the caked-on paste surrounding the opening that’s been eaten-up and traumatized by the air.) Go right ahead and do- yo-thang with the air-filled consistencies of your life, but I myself will simply continue to stray away.