On my way to the office this morning, I saw a man lick a parking meter.
Then a street sign pole.
Then a crosswalk signal pole.
Then a streetlight pole.
He didn’t appear to be crazy or anything. Dressed in khakis and a crisp button-up, he gripped a leather attaché case as he quickly darted out of the flow of pedestrian traffic to lick things. And these licks weren’t slobbery, wet laps of passion, but brief pink flicks — tongue touches, if you will. Just enough to steal a hasty taste of the glistening rain drops left from a morning shower. He skipped a knotty tree trunk but then bent over to lick the top of a banged up postal box and then a shiny new bicycle rack. It was clearly a terribly embarrassing and inconvenient OCD and I felt bad for the poor fella. Admittedly, I almost judged him when he again broke free from the shuffling sidewalk strollers and frantically made his way, uh, lickety-split to a rusty half-full trash can on the street corner. But then I realized I’ve probably licked waaaay worse things back when I frequented a certain bar on Second Avenue. Thankful that I don’t suffer from an OCD, I popped a Listerine Strip onto my tongue and gently tugged on my left earlobe three times like I always do when I find myself standing on the south west corner of an intersection.