My, my, my, how Hot Pants does carry on about her bloody finger and aching back. Sister, that little scratch’ll be history tomorrow, yet I’m awash in a near permament shmutzfest on my fingers, arms and, occasionally, my face. One choice stigmata on my eyebrow burned like hell. I wear those damn disposable gloves when spritzing acids onto jewelry all day long, but somehow that devil’s elixir seeps onto my flesh and – boom – another discolored patch of burning flesh bubbles up.
Eventually, I do enjoy the deep satisfaction of peeling off the offending dead epidermis. Meanwhile, I look I’ve lost an amateur butchering contest.
Why do I even bother getting a weekly manicure? Because I’m a lady, that’s why. A messy, messy lady.
The state of my hands is but a cosmetic woe. My feet, I’m afraid, are an ongoing pain that will end only upon my death. I lie in bed at night feeling their throbbing soreness and I wonder, will I ever be free of this burning sensation? If I lose another 30 lbs., will that help? Which damn Dr. Scholl’s pad will do the trick? Is this the result of two miserable adolescent years en pointe?
If you don’t believe how bad it feels, here’s how bad it looks:
I wear a WW shoe, plus the joy of high arches. In other words, my feet resemble two pancakes thrown over high rocks. My shoe wardrobe approaches full-on orthopedic. I am without vanity, wearing only clogs and sandals fortified with every known shock absorbing liner.
How I’ve careened about for 50+ years on these inadequate hooves, I’ll never know. What I do know is, sitting is my hobby; lying down is my passion. Anything to give my dogs a rest.