As I write this, I have the sniffles. Mild sniffles, no sneezes, no fever, but you gotta wonder. Is this it? My swine flu moment?

I’ve been at battle stations for a month now. I’m not panicked, just hyper-vigilant. That honk you just heard was a coworker blowing his nose. Could he be the one?

I cringed when I came in the rear door of the Register this morning. Who else has touched it with his germy paw?

Note to self: Wash hands immediately.

I’m not joking. We’re all sitting ducks.

Ironically, I’m probably my own worst enemy. One of the cardinal rule of defending against swine flu is to keep your hands — your filthy, contaminated hands — away from your eyes, nose and mouth. Sounds easy, but it’s not.

I love fiddling with my upper self. My hands pretty much live around my face. My eyes itch more than you might imagine. I deal with tiny sniffles directly.

And then there’s my mouth. Why in the world would a finger or two decide to find refuge there? Can’t say, but they do.

I know. Hands in mouth are only a slightly less effective means of viral transmission than a hypodermic needle of pure swine flu in the arm.

And gross to boot. Still, I do it most naturally.

The Register isn’t taking the swine flu threat sitting down. We have a  workplace safety committee that is encouraging us to cough into our arms, wash our hands frequently with soap, stay home if sick. A flyer with such health tips is taped inside all the bathroom stalls.

Elsewhere in the plant, strategically placed dispensers squirt out disinfectant. Some of my coworkers swear by them. I’m not convinced.   

To fight the pandemic, some churches have encouraged their parishioners to no longer shake hands. At my church, we’re still shaking.

There’s a moment at the beginning of the service called “passing the peace.” You’re expected to shake hands with a dozen or so people of unknown health before you’re allowed to sit down.

In normal times, this hand shaking can be an effective way to emphasize our connectedness as human beings. There’s something sweetly intimate about touching palm to palm.

But in a plague year? It messes with my mind. For the rest of the hour I have to focus the service while keeping guard over my right hand, which is incubating who knows what. Any attempt to stifle a yawn could be my undoing.

A disconcerting event occurred at a recent communion service. I didn’t witness it, but Cheryl, who was ahead of me in the communion line, gave a graphic report.

The protocol calls for parishioners to first select a cube of bread, then dip it in a chalice of grape juice. The soaked cube is consumed while walking back to the pew.

Given that double-dipping isn’t allowed, it’s all sanitary enough.

On this particular Sunday, however, the gentleman ahead of Cheryl decided not to dip his cube. Instead, he grabbed the communal cup and took a direct sip.

Do you comprehend what I’m saying? His lips touched the communal pool of juice.

In an earlier year, decade, century, no problem. This is how communion was often done. But in the context of H1N1?

Cheryl, who has the instincts of a public health nurse, recoiled. As far as she was concerned, the cup was contaminated.

For her turn, she dabbed at the grape juice with her bread cube, then cupped it in her hand. Back at the pew, she wrapped it in the church bulletin. Later, exiting the church, she threw it out.

We’ve been processing this event. Since it happened during a sacrament, should she have suspended her germ paranoia? Better yet, how about warning me? And what do we do if it happens again?

Hard to say. All I know is it’s time to shake up old behaviors. We’re in the midst of a national emergency. We have to be more mindful. Our health is in our own hands ... and very likely the hands of others.

Get with it, people. Stop those facial explorations. Wash those hands. Use soap. No more bypassing the sink when sailing out of the men’s room.

You know who you are.

Kevin can be reached at 256-2217 or Napa Valley Register,  P.O. Box 150, Napa 94559 or kcourtney@napanews.com