Winter skin: complaining not helping

Winter Skin taking a toll on chipper demeanor

The inside of my nose feels like it’s lined with fiberglass. I want to remove my eyeballs and soak them in KY jelly until they are reconstituted like dried out mushrooms. Winter skin on my fingers is cracked and my feet look like crusty dog chew toys. My lips are as supple and kissable as a sun-dried tomato. Apparently, non-stop nose drips makes me “super bitchy, mom” and “wildly unpleasant, sweetheart”. My elbows look like elephant knees. The fine lines around my eyes are not so fine these days. I am, in a phrase, “a sight to behold”, and then to run away from.

Can’t play in turtle pools in the winter and not freeze your nibs off.

Lotion only mocks winter skin

Where is this mystical land of Olay where you can get the oil? Is it a mirage? Where is the love, NeilMed nasal douche? Saline squirts up my nose aren’t passing muster, no matter how frequent. I demand relief! I should buy stock in Auquaphor. Burt and his bees can kiss my ass. She don’t use jelly, she uses vaseline. (Sorry, nod to Flaming Lips fans. I’ve been waiting for years to inject that phrase into a post. I know, I know. It still doesn’t make sense, but you know what? Piss off and write your own blog posts).

winter sucks
Can’t rock awesome swimsuits in the winter unless you live in Florida, or where ever.

More heat not always the answer to winter skin

For weeks I have vacillated from freezing to mildly less freezing. My fingers and toes could break off at any point. I try to control my temperature by straddling a space heater under my desk and obsessively microwaving corn bags that make my environment smell like burnt popcorn. This is sometimes counter-productive to keeping the lady parts in prime condition. I realize I’m adding insult to injury with the additional heating devices, but I’m bleepin’ cold! In short, it is a constant battle between trying to get warm and trying not to let dried-up parts of my lady body fall off. Where is the balance, I deplore you!

winter sucks
Can’t play with fountains in your swimsuit in the winter.

You can use olive oil on anything like windex

I’ve taken to slathering olive oil on the tender winter skin underneath my nostrils at night hoping to rejuvenate the area. I keep waiting for my spouse to confess he’s been dreaming about waiters bringing him crusty bread and balsamic vinegar. I go through kleenex like they’re skittles. My cat has turned the used, wadded-up tissues into sad floor toys.

My diet is completely out of whack in the winter. I’ve been eating meat like it’s bacon lately. I’ve eaten homemade peanut butter cookies for breakfast every day this week, and it doesn’t give me feel-good happiness. Just straight to self-loathing. I drink water non-stop to no avail, unless you count the number of trips to the loo as a daily accomplishment.

winter sucks
Can’t show off your belly so beautifully in the winter.

No matter how I clothe myself, it never seems to be adequate to the temperature or circumstance for as long as I need it to. I wear layers. I have glove liners. Smart wool socks? Not smart enough. I often venture out with hand warmers and I stuff warmers inside my boots. I have a balaclava (not to be confused with baklava) which I love but it only helps for a while. Sometimes I wear three scarves. I live in St. Louis, not Buffalo. I should not need ski pants and a winter coat rated to twenty degrees below zero. I’m not hiking Mt. Everest, people. I’m just trying to continue functioning during the winter.

2007_09_02 Labor Day downtown
Can’t play in cement sprinklers in the winter, though that would be awesome.

Finding the silver lining in the suckitude that is winter

I’m happy not to have to stare at the weeds that usually comprise the lawn-like area surrounding my house. There is no shame in my yard looking like shit when it’s this cold. Winter goes a long way to figuratively level the playing field with overly-zealous trophy lawn neighbors with their showy “grass”, flower bed borders and lack of nature debris. Fuckers.


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