Or not. Preferably not.
I don’t want to change any more shitty diapers in my life. I did enough of that when my illustrious EX mother-in-law decided to let my then-20 month old son go through an entire box of graham crackers in an afternoon.
Suffice to say that the graham crackers pretty much didn’t do much to prevent my son from partaking in the “evil” of self-abuse, (face it people, all boys masturbate whether they admit to it or not,) but they did much to make him shit like a horse for a week straight.
Once you’ve had to power wash your kid, Clorox his jammies and the bed sheets every day for a week because he wakes up with the entire bed coated in used graham crackers that have made their way down the good ol’ Hershey Highway, the whole hosing-shit-off-bloody-everything routine gets extremely old. I did have a number of choice pejoratives for my evil ex-mother-in-law, but in her defense, her head never was screwed on quite right. Suffice to say she was never left alone with the POMC again. To this day he is scared shitless (oh, what a relevant metaphor!) of that harpie, even though he was only three the last time he ever even saw her. If she’s still alive- and if only the good die young she’ll live to be 900- she’s well in her 80s. As long as she stays away from me, I truly don’t care where she is, how old she is, or what she does with herself.
I can’t imagine changing diapers for any of my adult relatives. Though it may sound callous, if you can’t make it to the crapper or wipe your own ass, the nursing home is calling your name. I’m weird enough about people touching me, let alone having to touch other people in ways I don’t even want to contemplate.
I understand that the people at the nursing home will have to hose off your carcass from time to time, but 1.) they are getting paid to do it, and 2.) they have a ready supply of disposable gloves.
I was probably the only child who was grateful for a teacher or parent’s admonition to a group of children to “keep your hands and feet to yourself.” Anything that will keep the little snot spewers from fingering me or violating my personal space is a good thing. When I was growing up, people usually only made physical contact with me to slather nasty things on me, throw live stinging insects in my hair, or to kick my ass. I am wary for a reason.
I can’t tolerate itchy, inflexible or binding clothing against my skin. Ever. I still have bad memories of 70’s polyester and those God-awful pantsuits Grandma made for us out of that stuff. Grandma was a fantastic seamstress, but if you create clothing out of fabric that is more like Teflon than cashmere, it’s not going to be comfortable. Mom would add itchy lace socks and turtlenecks to these pantsuits and I literally got welts all over from both the friction and the heat generated by those purgatorial ensembles. 70’s polyester was HOT as well as being inflexible and itchy. It did NOT breathe.
Lord, deliver us from these horrible garments!
I can’t move my LEG!!!
Even denim was problematic back in the day, as you pretty much had to drive over a pair of jeans, then wash them several times in flaming hot water with bleach, then dry them for a few hours with some marbles thrown in for fun. Otherwise the skin-tight (no spandex…) denim would be so crunchy and rigid that breathing was almost as impossible as bending at the knees, or sitting.
Just Don’t Bend Over.
Another drawback of 80’s clothes is that you had to iron just about everything, including the (usually) cotton oxford shirts. Cotton breathes, which is a plus, but those oxford shirts are a bitch to iron. Of course, not liking itchy or crunchy things, I was never a big fan of starch.