We get it. You panicked. You thought: “This virus is coming for my family and me. What do I have to defend us? Soap? Fucking Irish Spring? I don’t think so.”

No, you wanted us, disposable cloths soaked in a disinfectant that can eradicate 99.9% of germs. On March 13, you sped to the store. You knew right where to go: aisle seven, next to the mops, and where the toilet paper used to be. And there we were. Portable. Disposable. Hoardable. Lavender and lemon-scented.

But can we talk?

Do you really need to keep all of us? Do you even know our names? You’ve only used Jennifer, Allan, and eight of the Sharons. Some of us have been having a little FOMO, like there’s more action elsewhere, you know? We’re watching our dreams die as we dry out in this linen closet.

Remember when you picked Jennifer for the first wipe downs? Those heady early days. You attacked the bathroom sink, kitchen sink, doorknobs, TV remotes, iPhones, eyeglasses, dining table, microwave handle, all the fruits and vegetables. Don’t take this the wrong way; she was totally happy to be of service. But you should know that Jennifer had hoped to work with children in some capacity, maybe a placement in a daycare.

We were impressed with your initial strategy: a tub of wipes in every room. Definitely the right move. I mean, we’re sanitizers. Cover every base! You just happened to pick Allan for the bathroom (so ironic! He was a huge Property Brothers fan), and he wanted us to tell you he absolutely loved the remodeling job. I believe his exact words were, “The nickel finish on those fixtures is fire AF.” Oh, and he also wanted us to tell you that you’re the only one who uses us. Your kids have been lying.

And, let’s be real, you’ve been lying to yourself too, haven’t you? Sharon #4 says it’s been six weeks since you last wiped down the front door handle. She would rat out her own mother, so take that with a grain of salt. But has anyone gotten sick because of it? No.

You’re still doing so much. You really are. The masks. The distancing. As members of the disinfectant community, we applaud your commitment. If things get really bad, you can always reinstall the disinfecting shower on the porch for the mail carrier, and haul the hospital-grade ultraviolet light towers up from the basement.

But with the working from home, the supervising of the kids’ remote schooling, the Zooming (Sharon #7 thinks the studio lighting you set up in your office really warms you up on camera), and just keeping up with everything? Ugh. So hard, right? You don’t have time for surfaces the way you used to, and that’s fine. No judgment.

So let us go. You’ll be okay. We’re needed elsewhere now. Hand one of us to your neighbor Wayne, the one who uses a wheelchair and lives alone. Bring a few of us to the fire station up the block. Okay, Bernadette put us up to that one — she loves firefighters. But seriously, maybe distribute some of us to homeless shelters and nursing homes. Heck, you might even stand in front of the grocery store where you found us and give some of us away. Those guys will be so shocked to see us again, amirite?

Look, if you decide you want to do a quick wipe down on some faucets and handles again before we go, we’re here for you. And if you grab the bottle of bleach that’s been sitting over here for so long that it’s stuck to the shelf paper? That’s cool too. Deep down, we’re all the same.