I hate filth. Filthy hands are horrible. Some would even say I was prissy, and as a girl I certainly was. You might think I would be a clean freak, but no. Being organized is only possible in spurts, and then entropy relentlessly takes over. If it were not for gloves, I would never clean a thing.
Some family stories have come from this trait.
As a baby, if I got anything on my hands, I immediately started crying and wanted to have my hands washed. So imagine my horror when a macadam road (blacktop) was being poured, and I got my hands in the tar. I had been warned to stay away from the road, but I was five. I wanted that tar off my hands, immediately! I was sent to the bathroom to wash my hands, but that did not work. Dad eventually did get the tar off of my hands.
As a child of 13 years, I was taught to clean the fish a neighbor caught and gave to us. The smell, the feel on my hands, the scales flying all over the place, and the mosquitoes that were attracted. Yes, I was a baby about it. I didn’t care. I would do it, but I would not be happy about it. Eventually we took the fish to the basement tub to clean, still gross, but no mosquitoes.
As a teenager I was expected to rake leaves, which included cleaning out the window wells of partially decayed and slimy leaves. Again, I did the job, under protest. Working in the garden was traumatic. I hate getting dirt on my hands. I have been told that there is a difference between good clean dirt, otherwise known as soil, and filth. I can see the difference, I would just like to avoid either.
As an adult, I stopped trying to just get over this aversion and came up with another solution. It was remarkably simple. It was so simple. I was surprised that my very intelligent parents never came up with my solution. Gloves.
Cotton gloves for dusting and other household tasks. Rubber gloves for dishes, pots, and pans. Outside I have gloves for different tasks. When my own children would complain about yucky chores, I was ready with the solution. Gloves! Without gloves, I would require a staff of housekeepers and gardeners.
It’s a shame I wasn’t born rich.