Karma. . .

My brother Daniel used to wash his hands incessantly as a child. We are talking about every 2 minutes. This amount of washing can't be good for the skin. When winter rolled around, the cold breeze wasn't very kind to the skin on his hands. His hands would get really cracked and look like a rash of evilness. Rash of evilness = ugly rash - for those that don't understand Spicer speak. It got so bad that his hands would start to look black when winter progressed. My dad had to prescribe him this really powerful hand lotion. I remember his hands hurting him a lot. Now, me being the ever caring brother I usually laughed at him or poked fun at his ugly hands. It was my duty afterall. I was the older brother. What else would be expected?

Many years later, I'm wondering if I should have laughed. I look down at my hands and they are beet red. They are very cracked. In spots I can even see dried blood. Not pretty. I won't be winning any Handsomest Hands contests this year. Worse of all, they really hurt. I don't want to wash my hands. Unfortunately, I have a job where I need to wash my hands on a very regular basis. Maybe that is the reason for the cracking? Just like my silly brother who felt his hands needed to be recleaned once the clock changed time. Here I am, suffereing the same fate.

So, what does this prove? Don't mock your siblings for being silly and clean freaks. Or I'm a big wuss that has to whine to everyone about his hurt hands. You can choose either.