My grandmother recently died.
No need to flood me with “oh I’m so sorry” comments. My grandmother was an ornery old coot who lived to be 93 years old out of sheer stubbornness.
We weren’t close, but she was a constant part of my (and my mother’s) life. Her passing leaves us in a tailspin of “what do we do now?” that has had far greater impact on my life than I’d expected.
On the upside, I inherit her supply of Aspercreme. Something I am very excited about because…you know…23 of doing nails. Although my clients seem genuinely flummoxed as to why I would want arthritis cream.
Maybe they forget that I’m counting down the last 19 days till my 45th birthday. And my 23rd full year as a professional hand-holder will get ticked off six months later.
They just don’t seem to understand how much physical damage they are doing to me when they laugh and say, “Oh Maggie! I don’t know how to relax my hands,” as though it’s something they shouldn’t have to worry about.
If someone told me that holding my hand hurt them, I would be devastated. It would cause me to re-evaluate my entire concept of my existence. It would initiate a paradigm shift for me.
Holding hands with someone is supposed to be comforting. It’s supposed to evoke a sense of intimacy — bring you closer together.
Nope. Holding hands with most people is a physical challenge. A challenge they take delight in issuing.
Then they wonder why I would be excited about inheriting a stash of topical analgesics.
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