I blame the teenage attendant who showed us what we were supposed to do. Or perhaps my own pride because I refused to act like I didn't know what I was doing. Fake it 'till you make it and all that, right? But you see, she was talking like, rillyrillyfastyaknow? And she said 'you should use this lotion to cover your nails and cuticles, palms, ankles, elbows and knees. You don't need to slather it on.' Or at least that's what my 43 year old ears heard. And I, in all my maturity and know-it-all-ness went on my merry way.
Now, I'm pretty sure that I put that word "don't" in there myself. Because, um, I didn't slather. And now my thumbs and forefingers look like they have been bathing in nicotine. Like I have been a 30 pack a day smoker since fetushood. My palms look like they overdosed on beta carotene.
The rest of me looks okay. Actually, my legs look pretty good and I won't be embarrassed to run in shorts. Well, okay, I'll still be embarrassed to run in shorts, but at least my legs won't look so pasty.
But my hands? No worries. It's totally cool. Because it's not like anyone will see them. Right?
Ahem.
