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I Can Quit Anytime

I'm sorry I haven't been around much lately, but I have developed a wee dependency which is using up most of my free time. I now spend almost every waking moment applying Nivea Creme to my hands.

About ten days ago, my hands developed this unpleasant dry/flaky thing, and that's when it all started. Usually, when I am in the market for a lotion or a potion, I am all about the far-fetched claims of the healing properties of nature. "Hook me up with some of that Ginger-Honey-Cauliflower Healing Balm," I say. "Toss a pinch of your Miraculous Dead Sea Smoothing Clay with Lemongrass Extract my way - I want to believe!" However, on this particular itchy trip to Walgreen's, an unassuming little package of the N.C. was what caught my eye and that was pretty much it.

Nivea Creme. Its unneccessary Frenchness. Its alluringly retro logo that combines the block print and the cursive, the bold and the delicate! Its claim to be "the original moisturizer for every skin type!" Its microcystalline wax! Its fragrance, that Grandma's-makeup-drawer sense memory! The fact that you can purchase an alluring little round blue tin of it - so old-fashioned, so ladylike - for just 99 cents! And within--oh, within, that rich and creamy nectar, simple and unassuming. You will find no pretensions here about not leaving a greasy residue, about quick and easy blending. This is the Original Moisturizer, posers. This is serious business, snow-white and the consistency of margarine. You'll need to take time off to rub this in, and no need to apologize to the sad, crack-knuckled haters who work a full 8 hours per day. They're just jealous of your smooth, content, modestly glistening and attractively scented epidermis.

Now if you will excuse me, I sense a breach in the Nivea Field, right around the left wrist joint. Also, I need to research how to clean, uh, "Decyl Oleate" off of keyboards. Cheerio, Dry Ones!