While I'm really happy that hubby found a job, I can't do the happy dance cause I totally jacked myself up Thursday night. I'm still not sure how it happened, but, I may want to look into calling Johnson & Johnson and having them recall the band-aids. No, seriously. Either they've got a case of tampering, or my body has become more insidious than I've ever given it credit for.
First, my skin springs the trap by developing a hair bump
Everything seems fine for awhile, but after an hour or so of walking around Walmart, I'm sweaty, cause for some God-only-knows-why reason, it could be 12,000 degrees outside and 10 degrees inside Walmart; I will sweat like a nasty-ass-pig within 5 minutes of being inside Walmart. As I was saying... due to my Walmart induced sweaty-ness, the band-aid was becoming noticeable (feeling) to me as I walked around. We get home and I'm putting things away and my usual bopping up and down off the couch to get this and move that, when the band-aid starts getting down right painful.With that, Hubby goes out for a ciggy, and I make the colossal mistake of removing the band-aid.
It seems that my demonic sweat turned the adhesive on the band-aid into nuclear holocaust adhesive inside of four hours because when I pulled off the band-aid SKIN CAME WITH IT. That's right, y'all. Just like you hear those horror stories about kids being taped up with duct tape as a practical joke and then having to go to the hospital and winding up with skin grafts... Yeah. Well mine are obviously much, much smaller. In fact when I showed Hubby the four skinless red lines up either side of either end of where the band-aid had been he just scoffed, because in all honesty, they look like nothing. Except they're on my INNER THIGH. As in: being rubbed by cloth every time I move my leg a scintilla. As in: being pressed on and rubbed with cloth when I walk because of my ginormous size that I mentioned I can no longer hide from thanks to bleepedy-bleepin'-Best-Buy.
Skinless red lines which, before my own personal mutilation, I would have slathered with Neosporin and covered with A BAND-AID. But now I can't do that because Band-aids are no longer my friends. After a life time of trust, they have betrayed me. Nor can I cover it with gauze because I'd still need to use medical tape to keep it on and the band-aids may be into cahoots with the medical tape cause it's Johnson & Johnson brand too.
So, I can't cover the wounds, but I still need to slather it with Neosporin and sit on the couch pants-less eating Dryer's Drumstick ice cream
But, no. Why? Because we have a roommate now. A male roommate. One that I'd rather die than sit around pants-less in front of, mainly because I like him as a person and wouldn't want to scar his brain irrevocably with that image, because then he'd be too distraught to ever move out and we'd be stuck with him living with us forever and ever all thanks to nuclear band-aids.
So now instead of
I'll have to make it a joint
We are trusting you, fine people
It is ever so slightly possible that I need to layoff the Boston Legal reruns.