John Stevenson hasn't stopped patronizing the local gym, but during his workout, he is wiping down his machines with spray disinfectant and paper towels. Sales associate Janet Lininger is having customers swipe their own credit cards (she's relieved to have recently shifted from the intimate-apparel section to the far-less-cozy handbag department).

In ways both discreet and direct, serious and silly, Americans are refiguring their routines and bending their behavior in an attempt to stave off swine flu. Which raises the question: What is the social protocol in the age of a pandemic?

Etiquette experts agree that these are tricky times. "As a society we're saying that for our safety we need to change basic social interaction," the kinds of niceties that have been ingrained for generations, says Anna Post, spokeswoman for The Emily Post Institute (and the manners matriarch's great-great-granddaughter). Considering how global our culture has become — "how many more people we have pinging around the world, exchanging germs" — Post says "this could be the beginning of a huge social shift."

At work and at restaurants, the swine-flu savvy are offering up dollops of anti-bacterial gel as though they're passing out mints. At parties, they're resisting the urge to double dip. At grocery stores, they're swabbing cart handles with sanitized wipes. At church, they're receiving Communion in the hand rather than on the tongue and bypassing the communal chalice and holy water font.

And for those who don't follow society's new rules regarding public hygiene — who, for instance, cough uncovered into a crowded subway car — they're shooting off the stink eye.

But as the rules are being rewritten — typically on the fly and with little precedent — awkward moments are emerging: an outstretched arm that's met with merely a nod, a dust-stirred sneeze that requires a sheepish, "I-swear-I'm-not-sick" defense.

BUMP VS. KISS

When it comes to flu etiquette, "I think a lot of people are confused," says Jacqueline Whitmore, author of Business Class: Etiquette Essentials for Success at Work.

In September, the women of "The View" demonstrated how best to safely say hello, with an elbow bump vs. a kiss. Last month, the "Today" show's Kathie Lee Gifford and Hoda Kotb showed off their suggested method: the "heinie" bump, "because you're not going to spread any germs through your Spanx," as Gifford put it.

A few weeks ago, the health center medical director at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute in Troy, N.Y., sent an e-mail to students recommending they avoid drinking games, which, of course, typically involve spit-swapping via a shared cup.

Then there's the glorified gear with which those who are concerned or merely cautious are equipping themselves. A Japanese outfit, Haruyama Trading Co., has come out with a $600 titanium dioxide-coated business suit that the company says acts as armor against the H1N1 virus.

A company called Healthy Hands has launched the $3.99 Musical Hand Wash Timer, which fits onto a liquid soap dispenser and, once soap is pumped, plays a Disney movie tune for 20 to 25 seconds, the recommended length of time that children — and adults — should wash their hands. Healthy Hands president Rick Ruskin says he has sold thousands of units versus the hundreds he thought he might move when he brainstormed the idea two years ago, pre-swine flu.

And sure, there's medicinal-smelling Purell and Germ-X, but there's also sweet- and citrusy-smelling hand sanitizer from Bath & Body Works and even Victoria's Secret.

Though Bath & Body Works' anti-bacterial gels have been around since the early '90s, they're experiencing "exponential, spectacular growth" amid the swine flu scare, says Camille McDonald, president of brand development. Also in response to swine flu fever, the chain has instituted Germ-Free Zones in each store, where customers can wash their hands while trying out the company's products.

AVOIDING THE MALL

But retail analyst Pam Danziger, the president of Unity Marketing, isn't sure that vats of sanitizer will supply a thick enough coating of confidence to get shoppers out of generic germ-free zones and into crowds at, say, the mall, a veritable Petri dish for contagions. "They're spooked," she says, first by the scary economy and now compounded by swine flu fears — a potentially "perfect storm" for the holiday shopping season.

"I could envision this thing really creating this perfect excuse for people not to buy gifts," says Danziger, who herself is mindful of getting sick (she has cut back on plane travel, is known to wear gloves while shopping and these days, if someone were to cough behind her in a theater, "I would get up"). Black Friday? "They're not going to go" and brave the packed stores. "I think (swine flu) could just kill that day."

Stevenson isn't hiding out from the masses — although with gym equipment at home, he's considered avoiding his public one in Harrisburg, Pa., especially after the woman working out next to him coughed and sneezed every day for a week. Sure, she hacked into a towel, but then she draped the soiled scrap of fabric over the handrail of her stair climber. The scene "sort of made me ill just watching her," says Stevenson, 54, who works in publishing. On the other end of the health-and-safety spectrum, he has seen a couple of gym-goers pound the treadmill while wearing clear plastic gloves. "I'm not that paranoid, yet."

Still, Stevenson has curbed his appetite for sandwiches at the neighborhood shop where "they go from taking your money right to making your sub," sans gloves. "It makes you wonder."

When swine flu first swooped in last spring — and when Lininger was still doing bra fittings — some of her intimate-apparel colleagues asked if they could wear surgical gloves while helping customers. Though management never supplied any, one of the other associates did bring in her own.

In handbags since July, Lininger has armed herself with slightly less obvious anti-swine flu weapons: jugs of Germ-X parked by the registers, but hidden from customer sight. Also, as opposed to handing purchases over, she's plunking them on the counter for shoppers to pick up themselves, to minimize skin-on-skin contact.

"I'm trying not to make anyone feel bad," says Lininger, 54, of Bethel Park, Pa.