What is it going to be next year?  I can’t even begin to imagine where you’re going to decide to be dry and/or itchy.  Every winter you magically decide to give me more grief, and it’s always something new.  You’re so crafty!  Just when I thought I had my legs under control, you start making my back itch.  Just when I’d developed my never-shaving-in-winter, baby oil-after-shower-protocol and I was consistent enough that I was no longer clawing my skin off in my sleep, the back started.  At first, I though it was my bra strap chafing against some teeny tiny pimple whose misfortune it had been to be out of my reach. Then I got home and had Mr. Apron check it out, and lo and behold; the eczema that I don’t have was on my back.

The eczema I was not supposed to have – do you hear me, skin?  My brother was the one who was supposed to be all pink and blotchy and covered in ointment, not me.  I am supposed to be the healthy one.  The first year the eczema showed up on my knuckle and thumb, I thought I must be delusional.  Contact dermatitis! I cried, because it couldn’t have come from within.  Eczema doesn’t suddenly develop in one’s twenties after a lifetime of skin no worse than cracked heels!  But there it was.  The next year found me breaking through the skin on my legs unconsciously as I slept.  After that, it was more eczema on my shoulders, and this year you have visited me on my back, which, I should mention, is pretty hard not only to scratch satisfactorily, but also to apply lotion to.  

Skin, you’re just pissing me off.  How can I have worse acne now than I did in my teens?  How can you give me wrinkles and ‘fine lines’ while I’m still fighting black heads?  Where is the justice?

This morning as I wriggled my back and adjusted my bra to no end, and cajoled Mr. Apron into putting obscene amounts of lotion on my back, I gave up.  I had to go change my bra. 

Now, skin, I know what you’re going to say: it was just a bad bra, always has been a bad bra, never has there been cause for alarm.  It’s all been in my head or strapped over my shoulders.  But no!  You are wrong, for I wear the same bra every day!  So picky is my skin and my shoulders and my ribcage and my Girls that I have 15 of the same bra!  So there!  The only variety my Girls see is in shades of tan, pink, white or black.  It is the evil skin. 

So when you decide to stop cracking my fingertips in the winter, breaking out my forehead, and cursing me with gifts of new eczema, we shall come to a peace.  Until then, whatever you throw at me, just please keep your elasticity.  I don’t think the Girls can bear having to find a new style of bra, and gravity is a cruel mistress.

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