I am sitting in my sitting room (as you do) in damp pyjamas. They are particularly damp about the breastage area so I look like I have leaking boobs. Their elastic has gone (pyjamas, not boobs…well, actually boobs to some degree) and I’ve had to pull them (pyjamas) right up to my tummy button and fold them over so they don’t fall off. I have two pimples and a shiny vaseline face. My greasy hair is slicked back out of the way. It’s possible I have never been so attractive.
Let me explain. This wet jarmie thing has become a bit of an every third day ritual. It is a result of me trying to manage my eczema, which manifests itself as dry, itchy skin with scales, cracks, swelling, lines, hives, red patches and scabs. I know, you’re feeling slightly turned on by now aren’t you? It gets better. Underneath the jarmies are wet crepe bandages, which are helping my lotions sink in to my skin and stay there at least until I wake up in the morning and am able to reapply before I disintegrate into a pile of desiccated person. It’s sooooo exciting. It’s two degrees outside and I’m in wet clothes.
When I peel it all off I won’t be scaly but I will look like a prune, a pink prune, which makes me think of scrotums. I even have the sparse, bristly hair – depilation is out of the question at this itchy juncture. (I’m thinking that auto-correct changing depilation to dilapidation is kind of apt.)
My husband – unsurprisingly – has retired to bed. If he did by some miracle feel remotely horny after looking at me he’d have a job to find my bits beneath the cold, clammy layers. And if he did, without being scared off by the looking like a scrotum thing, he’d likely do himself an injury because I’m so slippery.
It has me thinking about how little time I spend looking good in my Chosen One’s presence. Mostly he sees me in an array of lacklustre guises – grubby in overalls in the garden, sweaty in tracksuit after a walk, nude (hairy and dry) in the shower, in jarmies with birdsnest and eyebags in the mornings, in a floral apron at the stove (admittedly this is rare). The only time I’m looking half decent is when I’m driving away to town or at a party on the other side of the room talking to someone else.
I think we need to start doing that date night thing or else he’ll forget he’s not married to spotty scrotum bandage woman. He might start feeling ripped off. Mind you, his most common presentation involves cow poo, holey trousers and sticky up hair. And that’s fine with me. Being married to some sort of James Bond would just be too much pressure. I could never walk out in my bandages for James Bond. And my husband would perhaps feel insecure if I were Pussy Galore. Or not. Hmm, maybe I should start wearing nothing under my apron. Or making like Milla Jovovich in “The Fifth Element” and start workin’ my bandages.
Things could be worse I guess. In a few years I’ll probably scoff at myself for worrying about mere dry skin. I’ll probably be spending my nights in a sleep apnoea machine and an incontinence pad with my teeth beside me in a glass. He’ll have to clamber over machinery to get to me, never mind bandages. He’ll probably bump his head on the overhead hand bar I use to haul my arse out of bed. He’ll have to navigate the crotch-high anti-thrombosis stockings and the growly lap dog I let sleep on my cold feet. I’ll not hear the sweet nothings he whispers in my ear because my hearing aid will be on the beside table beside the teeth. By the time he’s done all that, he’ll be exhausted and I’ll be needing a pad change.
Will he still love me? At least with no teeth I could give a good blowie.
Anyway, time to shed bandages, take vitamins, floss teeth, brush teeth, remove contacts, remove child from my side of the bed, do wees, hop in, hop up again because I forgot to take probiotics, hop back in, read a bit of brain improving literature and go to sleep.
Just another exciting night in Bream Creek.