8 Shameful Hygiene Secrets I Will (Apparently Not) Take To My Grave

Hello. I am her: The woman with the grossest personal hygiene habits in the world. You wouldn’t know it if you saw me walking down the street. Because I’m dangerous like that. I blend. I look like most of you rational, well-mannered humans: I shower, I smell okay, I do my hair and makeup, I sport the skinny jean. But behind this façade is a dark, disgusting reality, one I’ve chronicled after the jump. Should you make it to the end and wonder, “How did she end up this way?” the answer is, “Who knows?” Don’t torture yourself thinking about it. Just rejoice in this fact: You’re not me. 

1. Foot Washing. As you’ll soon see, more than one of these grotesque issues rears its head thanks in part to the battered, broken down Brooklyn apartment in which I live. That said, it is impossible – impossible – for me to get my floors clean. I don’t know what it is: Something about the material they’re made of, I guess. Anyway, my point is that in the summer when I walk around barefoot, I can’t take more than a step before my feet are covered in a sort of black film. So, I’ve taken to washing my feet in the toilet. I keep a clean bowl, mind you, and when the goin’ gets tough – when my feet get filthy – I just pop ‘em in there, and flush.

2. The Makeshift Commode. Let me get straight to the point on this one: I pee in a flower vase in the middle of the night. I’m one of those people who gets up to pee, like, three times a night, and I don’t enjoy the trek from my bed to the other side of my apartment where, illogically, the toilet is. So every night as I’m getting ready for bed, getting myself a glass of water, my lip balm, turning down the bed and so on, I also bring with me a vase and a hefty wad of toilet paper.

3. The Versatile Sock (Part 1). Sometimes, when I need to blow my nose, I feel too lazy to stand up and get myself a tissue. And sometimes I’m just straight up out of tissue. Irrespective of the cause, I often find myself blowing my nose into my sock.

4. The Versatile Sock (Part 2). Let me be bold: I have a gas problem. Let me be bolder: Often when I am passing my gas, it’s not just gas that comes out. What I’m trying to tell you is this: I’ve got skid marks to rival those of the drunkest, most slovenly man. In the past year, I’ve gotten into this habit where every night before I go to sleep, I take off my sock – the one that hasn’t substituted as a tissue, natch – and I snuggle it quickly, deftly, up my otherwise delightful bum so as to, you know, ensure I’m safe for the night.

5. The Air Blow. This may be a bit more standard in the gross-out kingdom, but that doesn’t mean I’m above it. If I’m sans tissue, and if I can’t very well get to my socks either, I’ll just do the ol’ press-a-finger-against-one-nostril, blow-out-o’-the-other routine, to clear all those things that need clearing. It bears mention that I was at a party recently and did the air blow – discreetly, natch – on two separate occasions. After the first, I found a booger on my sternum. After the second, I found a booger on my arm. It also bears mention that when I say I “found” these myriad boogers, I mean that friends pointed to my arm or sternum and went, “Um … there’s something … there.”

6. Multitask The Callous. I often read before I go to bed. I lie on my couch, a couple pillows propped back behind my head, and I read. Unfortunately for me, when I’m reading I also reflexively pick at the calluses on my feet. I can’t not do it. I mean, asking me even to try is like asking someone to drink a Venti latte, and then hold it for the ensuing 15 hours.

7. Toenail As Toothpick. While we’re on the subject of feet, I should also admit I can get pretty obsessive, not just with the calluses on my feet, but with the nails as well. Often I’ll give ‘em a manual trim. And if I’ve eaten recently, I’m in no way above using said nail as a toothpick.

8. Goodnight, Peanut Butter. I’ve been known to eat in bed, and usually this happens around the time I go to bed. I’ll wander in with my various accoutrements – the flower vase-cum-commode and so on – and I’ll bring, say, a small peanut butter sandwich along with me on a paper towel. This is my favored method of transportation, since this way, I don’t have to worry about doing another dish in the morning. Anyway, once I’ve eaten it, I’ll just throw the now peanut-butter spattered paper towel onto the floor, to be dealt with in the morning. Well, on more than one occasion, the paper towel’s wound up falling on my vibrator that’s also on the floor. And on one occasion in particular I reached for that very same vibrator – I’d needed of a little morning masturbation sesh – without realizing it, too, was now spattered in peanut butter. I don’t want even to begin to tell you what went into the clean-up, but rest assured it involved some deeply uncomfortable exfoliation.