I ain’t high-maintenance, my skin is
I recently discovered that I cannot clean fish. It’s not the ick factor, mind you. I totally dig scooping out the entrails and trying to identify what’s what. It’s just that my poor hands can’t take it.
Yes, I am cursed with the dreaded Delicate Skin Syndrome. I can’t even wash my hands with soap - I have to use some special soap-free concoction from the pharmacy, that costs ten times the price of normal soap. And of course I have to shower with the same stuff.
Even dish-washing becomes complicated. I have to glove my hands as if I’m about to perform intricate surgery on the helpless little dishes. If they die, nobody will even know I was the culprit, because I leave behind no fingerprints. Of course, there’s always DNA these days… darn.
Problems crop up when I go to someone else’s house. I can’t leave the cups or plates or whatnot on the table, it wouldn’t be polite. Oh, I know people always say, “Just leave it there! I’ll take care of it later!” But if they’re anything like me, what they’re really saying is, “I have to say that because I’m the host, but I really wish you would do it and save me the trouble of having to clean up after your fat ass!”
But my soft fair hands aren’t supposed to get anywhere near those plebeian dish-washing detergents. So what do I do? I replace the plates on the table and sink back into my chair with a faux air of reluctance, knowing that I’m coming across as a lazy slob.
At the same time, the dispassionate commentator that lives inside my head (the one who’s a cousin to one of those ESPN sports commentators) announces, “And once again she narrowly escapes the horrors of dish-washing!” And I’m too pleased with myself to care about anything else. Because, you see, washing dishes is close to #1 on the list of Things I Won’t Do If I Can Help It.
Details are slightly different, but medical issues keep me from doing some basic tasks that politeness would dictate. I’m left hanging, wondering if I should quietly leave it alone and look lazy, explain my way out of it and look both lazy and whiney, or go to it and suffer later. Too often, I go to it which, of course, only makes it harder when I pull out the excuses next time. Pride is a funny thing that way, isn’t it?
Comment by kevin — July 27, 2005 @ 5:07 am