When I first mentioned I was going to weed the garden, my dad said, “Buy some gloves.” So I did. Good leather gardening gloves that fit comfortably, and all that.
Now, I hate wearing gloves. My fingers have to be going numb to the point of frostbite before I’ll willingly put on some gloves in the winter, and I have to be bleaching the entire house — twice — before I’ll wear them indoors. Gloves drive me crazy. You can’t feel what you’re touching, and you can’t do anything when wearing them. So, of course, when I bought these fantastic gardening gloves, I stuck them in the brick gardening shed out back, and promptly forgot about them.
Yesterday, after work, I finally tackled that lavender bush by the front walk-way that’s been threatening to swallow up the postman. I thought briefly about digging out the gloves, but, “Eh, too much bother for too little return.”
Today, thanks to various scratches and punctures, my hands are puffy and red. It looks like I have some strange hand-infesting tropical disease.
I have a meeting with clients tomorrow. I suspect we shall not be shaking hands. :-)
