With the onset of spring comes a lighter feeling, the desire to shed the things that have been weighing you down all winter physically, emotionally, and spiritually.  No one, young or old, is immune. It's hard for folks who live in climes where the trees remain green all year to understand fully the newfound energy and yearning to take a walk on the wild side when the buds appear after a long frostbitten winter. So when New York had its first balmy day this week with high temperatures near 60, I knew it was only a matter of time before something crazy happened. What I didn't expect was that it would involve a four-year-old girl and the 1 train.

Each morning I transfer from the 2 express at Chambers to the 1 local. On this day, the 1 train was fairly empty — anyone who wanted a seat had one. Across from me was a father taking his young daughter to daycare or pre-pre-pre-school, which it seems children must be enrolled in while still in the womb or be destined for a life of desperation and depravity. The father was deep in conversation with the friend seated next to him about the political candidates.

The little girl, unencumbered from her usual bundle of down coat, scarf, hat, and mittens, wanted to dance. She wanted to twist and shout and boogie on down. So she wiggled off her father's lap and showed off her moves that would rival some of the competitors on Dancing with the Stars.

Her father was wary and held on to her hand in case the train stopped short. But that wouldn't do. She wanted to be free from all restraints. She pulled from her father's grasp and shook what her momma gave her to a tune that was only in her mind. As we approached Franklin Street, her father stopped talking to his friend long enough to tell the girl to hold on to the pole. She grasped the silver pole in the middle of the car still dancing. (Let me pause for a moment to say that in no way am I guessing at or alluding to this girl's future career choice.)

The doors closed and we were on our way. The girl started a Flashdance-like stutter step and twirled around the pole. Her sheer abandon was infectious. I wanted to be four again, doing whatever the moment begot, hearing some kind of Orpheus-inspired melody in my mind, not letting my ego tell me it was embarrassing to do such a thing.

And then this sweet little girl did a thing so vile, everyone around her, including her own father, cringed involuntarily. Swept up by what can only be attributed to spring fever, she stuck out her tongue and licked the pole.

For you subway riders, no further explanation is necessary. In case you car commuters are wondering what the fuss is about and lest you think I'm a germophobic nut, I'll just say this pole, that most assuredly has never been cleaned since the train was commissioned during the Ford administration, has been held by hundreds of thousands of hands. Hands that have been sneezed on and coughed into. Hands that have gone to unmentionable places. Hands that picked noses only moments before. Who knows where else these hands have been?

I wouldn't be surprised if, in the coming months, a report was issued showing your house's dish sponge contains more germ-toting bacteria than the average subway pole. But I'm not taking any chances. Someone hand me some antibacterial lotion.

Jacquelin Cangro