You know you’re a total ponce when you have to purchase special finger condoms to get through your day. The tips of my fingers are like shaved steak now that the New England cold is taking itself seriously (my skin has been celebrated by millions of thrilled boyfriends the world over for its sensitivity. Look how far that’s gotten me.).
I’m suspicious of how excited I am for these to arrive, as it means that I have now ascended into sensationally weinerdog territory. The only people I know fragile enough to ever need extra-special finger condoms are the Donnellys, but all of you hens have flown south like any weakling with half a working brain might find the sense to do. Instead, here I am in my arctic bedroom in a poorly insulated Victorian, wincing in agony as I fold a cashmere sweater which feels about as sweet on my skin as a fucking belt sander.
I am now sadly plodding through the mundane tasks of my life in a pair of cornflower blue surgical gloves. I’ve cut the thumb off the left hand, but being a 24 year old thumbsucker is queer enough. I’m feeling a little too over the top doing it through rubber gloves. We’ve all watched enough E! Hollywood Specials to know that there’s always that one trivial choice nutbag celebrities make which signals they’ve crossed the bridge over from eccentric to commitable.
lilah I totally need to get some of those finger condoms! I am in similar pain to yours right now; I have been screenprinting for three days, which means repeated cycles of cold + dry + water + soap + pushing a squeegee around + lifting rough screen + using scratchy green scrubby thing + rubbing ink into my hands and then trying to wash it out… do not feel alone in the world! too well I am knowing, even now, the belt-sander-ness of drying my hands on a soft cotton t-shirt. I will join you in finger-condomed glory!
I’ll need to see action shots of you trolling about town wearing tiny blue finger condoms. I am going to die laughing.