Getting Eve

It’s similar to an oxymoron – you know, that little sign at the museum or in the blown glass store that boldly states “Don’t Touch”?  I don’t care where I am or what I’m doing, those words call to me, like the apple called to Eve.  Without any kind of self-control whatsoever my hand develops a mind of its own, reaches out, and strokes the forbidden object.  And I have a similar issue with taste, usually off of my fingers.  Fortunately this is generally a home-based problem, but it’s still disgusting and often uncontrollable.

It all started when I couldn’t have been much more than three or four years old. Our family had gone on some kind of vacation and my mother took me into a souvenir store. Trinkets and breakables filled the tiny space, and I needed to touch every single thing I possibly could. Of course my mother, and I think even the store attendant, told me to stop – ‘don’t touch’, rang in my ears, and I’m pretty sure they had a sign. But no one understood, my fingers and my hands simply could not cease their meanderings, especially once I knew that touching everything was totally taboo.  In the end I broke a small salt and pepper set, and the shop keeper made my mother purchase the items.  Evidently the incident made little impression on me, because I still have the need to touch.

My husband has the same problem. Just last weekend he ventured onto the back of our property where he had piled a fairly good amount of wood that needed to be burned.  The day had been declared a ‘burn day’ by our county, so like a child in a candy store he proceeded to ignite his fire. The blaze grew and heated up, to the point where the creosote on an adjacent fence pole began to bubble up.  Somewhere deep inside he had to have known that touching that hot, boiling tar-like substance could not end well.  But that thought didn’t surface.  Instead, curiosity won and his finger dipped right into it. Once again, that which should not be touched got touched.

Sadly I do the same thing in my kitchen. Except that I touch, and then without any thought whatsoever my finger goes straight into my mouth. The sticky substance on the outside of the peanut butter jar isn’t always jelly from the day before. And the creamy glob stuck to the bread bag?  Not mayonnaise, or if it is, it’s very very old.

I think it’s human nature, maybe even our evil twin emerging from within during those times of rebellion. When our kids are little we scold them when they eagerly put their little fingers all over Great Aunt Sally’s 100 year old china, or absent-mindedly stuff their filthy hands into their mouths, or think they are defying their older sibling when they stick their tongue to the frozen side mirror on the car – been there done that a couple of times.  But we adults tend to do the same things. We see or hear those words and our brains go haywire.  The forbidden somehow takes on a new and exciting bent and that prohibited act practically becomes an obsession.  After all, there must be something incredibly wonderful about that object if we aren’t supposed to touch it.  And the sticky stuff on the counter? I don’t know, maybe it will taste like chocolate from heaven.

So yes, I get Eve. The apple was forbidden fruit. Maybe God even hung a sign next to it that said “Don’t Touch”.  I don’t know, but I’m pretty certain that the next time I’m in a store or a museum where my fingers are supposed to remain by my side, they won’t. And when I pull the milk out of the frig and something brown and moist globs onto my thumb, I’ll try it. I just can’t resist.