Like one day, you think it might be a grand idea to combine walking the dog with some exercise. So you strap on your rollerblades, put the dog on the leash and head out the door. And then you, with the dog trotting happily along, reach the top of the really big hill and you have the sudden realization that:
- During the pre-rollerblade planning, you'd forgotten about the hill.
- The dog has started charging on down and you're still holding her leash.
- You have precious few choices. And they include:
- Keep holding onto the leash and follow the dog to your own certain and bloody death.
- Let go of the dog, but it's still not going to stop the momentum that's already begun to build.
- Plus, letting go of this particular dog means you won't see her again until hours later when an irritated neighbor brings her back and you have to explain the leash, the rollerblades, the hill . . . And as the words are pouring forth you sound more and more like the village idiot.
Is it just me? Anybody else had that experience? No?
I have eczema on my hands. It gets particularly bad during the dry winter. I do many things to keep it in check, but it's still hard to control. The other day, a doctor gave me the same advice I've always heard, only this time with a little twist:
In addition to using cortisone cream, layered with thick moisturizing cream, covered with cotton gloves or some such, she recommended a layer of plastic wrap over my hands before putting on the gloves (or thick cotton socks, as she advised.)
My hands hurt. I was willing to give this doctor's method a whirl.
Fresh out of the shower and ready for bed, I dutifully slathered on a thick layer of industrial strength cortisone cream, followed by a coating of moisturizer, wrapped my hands up carefully in plastic wrap, and slid on a pair of hubby's thick cotton socks over the whole sludgy mess. Imagine, if you will, how difficult that preparation was to achieve.
Walking back into our bedroom, I removed my bathrobe and allowed it to stay where it had come to rest on the floor. With my hands all trussed up like lobster claws in a restaurant tank, it was too much work to attempt to hang up the robe.
And that's when the sudden realization hit. How was I going to get my pj's on? Our room is much too cold on winter nights to sleep in the buff so I needed to figure something out. Wrapped up as I was, I had no dexterity. I didn't even have opposable thumbs.
I considered unwrapping my well-packaged hands, washing all the goo off, getting dressed and rewrapping. But the thought of putting my hands in hot, soapy water (especially having just exited a hot shower) was much too painful. I wasn't taking this mess off until morning.
I tried using my feet, my teeth and my flippers to maneuver my way into nightclothes. I had all the adroitness of a Muppet.
Still wearing nothing, I paced between the bathroom and bedroom several times. Maybe if I . . . no, that won't work. But what about . . . hmmm, that's no better.
Giving up, I walked out to the living room where sweet, long suffering Mister was sitting in his chair watching an engrossing episode of "Mythbusters." Standing there naked, except for the plastic wrap and socks, I asked for his help.
"Wha . . . But how . . . Never mind." He shook his head and told me I'm the strangest little person he's ever met. And then he helped me get dressed.