For months, there were red, itchy areas on my hands that wouldn’t go away. Of course, I did some online research. I looked at quite a few graphic photos of skin ailments. The closest match was scabies, a condition that is not that unusual but highly contagious.

I was convinced that microscopic mites were burrowing in the skin of my hands (sounds pretty psychotic). Between the time of my research and my doctor’s appointment, I washed my hands even more than usual, and spent a good deal of time ironing my sheets and underwear.

Now how would I contract something so gross? From time to time, I go hunting for photo props, and sometimes that means pulling tapestries and old quilts out of boxes at estate sales. Some of these sales occur in less than hygienic conditions, but I gamely plow through, even on porches that seem to be the permanent residences of really smelly, unwashed animals.

When my new doctor entered the exam room, she immediately shook my hand. I was taken aback, because the last doctor I had was the one who backed away when I said I had poison oak. After one look, the new doc said I had eczema, easily treated. We agreed that too much information is not necessarily a good thing.

She told me to stop washing my hands so much. However, when I go looking for props again, I think I will scrub right after, just in case.