Confessions of a Germaphobe

The period of Britney’s life when she was regularly papped coming out of public restrooms barefoot still gives me great anxiety.

Before we get to the germs…

My next STARF⭐️CKER LIVE! guest, this Friday May 2nd at noon PST/ 3pm EST/8 pm GMT is the fabulously bitchy prolific author/ screenwriter/fashion icon

Ottessa Moshfegh

. Ottessa and I became pen pals when she sent me a 32 page transcript of a conversation I had in 2007 with the late, great, Jean Stein. Jean was an OG nepo baby and author of the iconic Edie: An American Girl, a biography of Edie Sedgwick, that for many of us, remains a bible. Before Ottessa became an award winning, in demand by Miuccia Prada author, she transcribed interviews Jean conducted with Hollywood folks about Tinseltown lore.

JEAN STEIN: You spoke about what your grandmother represented [to you] in your burlesque book. Did you ever meet her?
LG: She died the year I was born. But I feel very much attached to her memory. I think one of the reasons I tend to romanticize the past and burlesque queens is because when you only know someone through a flat image, through a black and white photograph, you can romanticize their lives. You don’t see their flaws or the living, breathing human. I remember my dad showed me a screen test, a film of my grandmother. It was like seeing my dad in drag. It was the first time I saw her speak and move. They were making a documentary on my grandfather not too long ago, and they played me a tape of him from the Jack Benny show, and I had no idea that he had such a strong accent. Suddenly he became a different character in my head. It gave him a lot of warmth, I mean I’d always heard these things, Goldwynisms and that he had difficulty speaking English, but to hear him talk, growing up with Sesame Street, he sounded sort of like Oscar the Grouch or Grover, a muppet character. Suddenly I had this warm, fuzzy feeling about him which had never been imparted to me.

It was mind blowing to receive this time capsule conversation, discussing themes (ghosts of the past, Hollywood, fashion and sex) that make up much of STARF⭐️CKER. Soon, Ottessa and I were exchanging stories about vintage clothes, blow jobs and psychic attacks by malevolent ghosts. Our STARF⭐️CKER LIVE! conversation will be just as unfiltered.

Unfortunately, Ottessa does not share my germaphobia.

I’m not sure how I developed this neuroses but it’s been with me ever since I was a kid. I never once sat down on the guest bathroom toilet in the house I grew up in. Situated next to the front door, there was too much foot traffic for my liking, so I developed strong thigh muscles early on to better squat with. I use my foot to flush the toilet in public stalls, and would rather hold it in than ever use a Porta-Potti (another reason why I don’t love a music festival.) I won’t publicly shame them here but I have had to educate more than one extended family member about proper public bathroom hygiene. I do not believe paper seat covers do anything to protect your ass and always use a piece of toilet paper or a sleeve to latch open the stall door. After thoroughly washing my hands I maneuver my body to simultaneously push open the bathroom door with a foot while tossing the paper towel into a bin like a 3 pointer. I will admit that, when surfing, I will go into a public beach stall barefoot with my wetsuit on but I don’t like it one bit and immediately get in the ocean after, hopeful that the salt water will kill any lingering germs.

I’m also a hypochondriac who used to pore over a set of Medical Encyclopedias in the middle of the night as a middle schooler before there were Google K-holes to fall down. I self-diagnosed with a severe case of rabies at nine years old— hyper thirst is one of the symptoms—as I was always double fisting herbal tea and water. Even though I have never foamed at the mouth nor been bitten by a dog, I still drink so much water, at least 64 oz (roughly 2 liters) a day that it inspired a friend to make me a custom “Rabies” hoodie in pink Barbie™️ font a few years ago.

If you can believe it, the pandemic made me slightly less germaphobic. Suddenly everyone else was practicing similar sanitary protocol so I could relax a little. In February 2020, pre COVID lockdown, Gucci flew me to Milan to attend the F/W 2020 show. Already paranoid, I forced a mask on my Air France seat mate, designer Johnson Hartig of Libertine, who laughed as I wiped down every inch my body might touch with Dettol wipes I bulk buy in the UK.

LAX to Milan by way of Paris with Johnson Hartig, March 2020.

For years before COVID, I traveled with a head scarf wrapped around my face, only revealing my eyes. I applied Neosporin inside my nostrils and Blistex on my lips as barriers between myself and errant sneezers. Below is a photo from March 2019.

It’s chic to be a germaphobe. Just ask supermodel Naomi Campbell, seen here pre COVID with a mask, gloves and Dettol wipes; and during the height of the pandemic in a full jumpsuit. She brings a cashmere blanket to cover the seat with which I assume she dry cleans post flight. Speaking of which, I have made every boyfriend and my ex husband immediately remove all items of clothing at the front door after flying on a plane so I can put them straight into the washing machine while directing them to the shower before any intimacy.

I also can’t bring myself to swim in a public pool— even at a super fancy hotel, because a friend in high school told me a horror story of getting a viral infection from a public pool in Chicago where she grew up and having to get a spinal injection to treat the virus. I am equally afraid of needles as germs so better to avoid the whole possibility. I recently learned that jiu jitsu practictioners regularly contract ringworm from the mats which fills me with anxiety as I love this sport but now all I can think about is sliding around on other people’s stray hairs and bodily fluids. The threat of sweat is also what keeps me from enjoying any form of hot yoga (fucking disgusting) and a twerk out class a friend teaches because I once stepped in a deep pool of perspiration left by an ecstatic dancer.

I swear I’m not that bad though. I love a sweaty dance party, just not a scrub down at a spa on communal tables. I haven’t reached Howard Hughes levels, at least.

I use Howard Hughes as my germaphobe North Star and a reminder to tone it down when my inner neurotic monologue is getting too OCD. Hughes, a billionaire movie producer, aviator, and businessman, was notorious for his avoidance of germs. At the end of his life, spent in hermetically sealed hotel rooms, he lay in bed naked and wore Kleenex boxes on his feet to protect them from the floor. If anyone near him got sick, he would burn his clothing. I know, I have a problem but if you compare me to Howard Hughes it’s a mild case!

Fictional depictions of famed germaphobe, Howard Hughes.