My hands are always dry. In the winter it is from the cold, in the summer from the dry heat and all year round from the constant submergence in dishwater. Somewhere between necessity and luxury and atop my night table sits an emollient and pleasant smelling moisturizer which I purchased from one of my favorite chain stores. Its products send a pleasing aroma out to beckon prospective customers from the walkway out front and has achieved status in the hearts of woman who want to spoil themselves with a lotion, scrub or shower gel, not to mention the thousand other lovely accessories such as candles, sponges, nail kits and bathrobes that make those of the feminine gender feel like ladies of leisure, even for ten minutes out of our day.
Of course lotions can be found in every room in my home as well as in my car. And every now and then while running to supermarkets, physicians, and schools, a whiff of the satiny cream transports me to the ocean, to a mango orchard or perhaps to a field of lilacs. A lovely, affordable and short getaway; who could ask for more?
One day I had begun my trip to fetch my husband from the airport, an uncomplicated 30 minute drive. On the main road and not yet on the highway I decided to prep my hands for the homecoming. I envisioned my spouse's return, a sweet reunion cut short by a loving touch on the hand turned to dismay at my sandpaper fingers. No, that would not do at all.
The traffic lights were in agreement, and at the next red I hastily fetched my hand cream, unscrewed the cap and squeezed the oily concoction over my fingers. Before I had a chance to completely rub the moisture into my skin the darn light turned green. Not to be outdone, I continued to maneuver my automobile while maneuvering the cream over my hands until every millimeter of skin was silky smooth.
How proud I was at my skillful duel maneuver! For a moment I glanced around to see if anyone had noticed my somewhat risky driving distraction, but traffic moved smoothly. At the next red light a truck pulled up next to me. When its window opened I started to panic. Here it comes, I thought, another ticked off Israeli driver about to berate me for my "not as smooth as I thought" maneuvers. Great. Just great. That should put me in a fine mood for greeting my husband after two weeks apart.
Ignoring the driver didn't seem to discourage him; I had no choice but to hesitantly open my window and brace myself for the verbal assault. The driver leaned far out the window and spoke to me. Over the rumble of engines I strained to understand his Hebrew. "MAH?" I asked him. WHAT??
Dangling one arm out the window, his hand grasping a tube, he asked me, "At tzrichah krem yadayim?" "YOU NEED HAND CREAM?"
And they say Israelis aren't friendly. And yes, that actually happened.
Of course lotions can be found in every room in my home as well as in my car. And every now and then while running to supermarkets, physicians, and schools, a whiff of the satiny cream transports me to the ocean, to a mango orchard or perhaps to a field of lilacs. A lovely, affordable and short getaway; who could ask for more?
One day I had begun my trip to fetch my husband from the airport, an uncomplicated 30 minute drive. On the main road and not yet on the highway I decided to prep my hands for the homecoming. I envisioned my spouse's return, a sweet reunion cut short by a loving touch on the hand turned to dismay at my sandpaper fingers. No, that would not do at all.
The traffic lights were in agreement, and at the next red I hastily fetched my hand cream, unscrewed the cap and squeezed the oily concoction over my fingers. Before I had a chance to completely rub the moisture into my skin the darn light turned green. Not to be outdone, I continued to maneuver my automobile while maneuvering the cream over my hands until every millimeter of skin was silky smooth.
How proud I was at my skillful duel maneuver! For a moment I glanced around to see if anyone had noticed my somewhat risky driving distraction, but traffic moved smoothly. At the next red light a truck pulled up next to me. When its window opened I started to panic. Here it comes, I thought, another ticked off Israeli driver about to berate me for my "not as smooth as I thought" maneuvers. Great. Just great. That should put me in a fine mood for greeting my husband after two weeks apart.
Ignoring the driver didn't seem to discourage him; I had no choice but to hesitantly open my window and brace myself for the verbal assault. The driver leaned far out the window and spoke to me. Over the rumble of engines I strained to understand his Hebrew. "MAH?" I asked him. WHAT??
Dangling one arm out the window, his hand grasping a tube, he asked me, "At tzrichah krem yadayim?" "YOU NEED HAND CREAM?"
And they say Israelis aren't friendly. And yes, that actually happened.
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