I have a totally gross disease

For a health counseling project, I have been documenting my lifelong relationship with nail biting (NB), also known as onychophagia. Now, I am giving myself an intervention, horrified at my inner monologues.

They run something like this: "I'm not hurting anyone," "It's just something I do," and "I can quit any time I want, like for weddings and fancy events."

Not only am I a junkie, my preferred drug -- fingernails -- is grosser and less hip than glue or crystal meth, Andre Agassi's drug of choice.

In short (no pun intended), I am completely alone in conquering my body-focused repetive behavior. NB is completely unsupported by the media; there are no subway ads presenting the multi-cultural faces of onychophagia; and there are no celebrity NB golf events. My disease has no Mary Tyler Moore, awareness week, support group, or After School Special.

No one else gives a flying crap that my saliva probably contains dangerous levels of enterbacteria. No one else gives crap that NB is underresearched and more likely to reflect childhood NB rather than adult NB. No one cares because all the time and attention goes to swine flu vacccines and fat people. Trust me, I'm more dangerous.

In one study, researchers at Atatürk University in Turkey (Turkey, mind you) collected saliva from 25 nail-biting children and 34 non-nail-biters. E. coli, Enterobacter aerogenes, Enterobacter cloacae and Enterobacter gergoviae were found in 76% of the nail biters versus 26.5% of the non-nail biters. Gross.

Finally, my innocent little habit is in the same family as skin biting and hair pulling, also known as trichotillomania. In rare cases of trichotillomania, people die from eating their own hair, also known as Rapunzel Syndrome.

Thus my reasons for intervention. Although my cause has no ribbon or Oprah show, I alone try one of nail biting's most successful cures: habit reversal training. Instead of biting my nails, I will drink a glass of water.

Put that in your mouth and chew it.

Trails That Burn and Strangers Who Give Coffee

Hours ago, I finished my Appalachian Mountain Club hike on the New York section of the AT. Already, I feel satisfaction and soreness, a result from going over the river, through the woods, through a swamp, and up the mountain to Bear Rock.

Along the way, we met a Boy Scout group, a mountain runner, and a young couple cooking hot dogs by the Telephone Pioneer Shelter. Most of the leaves had fallen, and the AT, which goes from Maine to Georgia, revealed varigated shades of dull orange. We ate lunch on Bear Rock, experiencing the concrete satisfaction of climbing a mountain and looking down into the quiet world below. I experienced the same satisfaction on the way down, when we looked back at the place we had been. 

We finished the hike early, around 2 p.m., which gave us a half hour to look through the Native Landscape Garden Center, owned by Peter Muroski, an animal lover, meteorologist, and expert story teller. Our leader suggested that Pete sell coffee to hikers.

"We'd kill for a cup of coffee," my friend said.

"Would you like some coffee?" Pete asked. My friend, our guide, and I said, "Sure."

Pete led us to his office inhabited by two caged birds, a free-range parrot, and a 13-year-old cat. A native of Brooklyn, he said that people are nicer out of the city and that he's grateful to do what he loves. As proof, he showed his wall of photos, which included his wife on their first date, him with a giant fish, two deer mating, and a bearded man finishing the trail, his arms lifted in victory. Our guide and my friend suggested he write a book, not about hiking the trail but the strangers who wander off it.

Pete brightened at the idea. He said he lets hikers use the bathroom and camp on the wood chips outside his business. In addition, he provides temporary work for hikers wanting to finish the trail. As a result, he's met many people. One experienced hiker let a giant bear get too close while he made oatmeal. The hiker stood up to his full height and said, "You're not getting my oatmeal." The bear turned down the mountain.

Other hikers needed emergency care, the result of hypothermia.

"I've met a lot of people," he said.

From our lunch spot on Bear Rock.