S is for sticky slime…
When I was little, and I mean before I started making memories, anything slimy or sticky on my hands sent me into a spiraling meltdown. Early on, my mom learned that feeding me without a wet washcloth close by, was a mistake. I was the kid that didn’t dive head first into their first birthday cake, because having frosting on my hands made me cry.
I wish I could say that I grew out of it, but I didn’t.
The older I got, the worse it got. Watching me make anything in the kitchen, is probably pretty entertaining. I spend more time washing things off my hands in the sink, than I do actually cooking or baking. Gardening is not my thing because having all that dirt between my fingers… well, let’s just say even thinking about it makes me feel pretty sick to my stomach.
There is something about things oozing over my hands, or sticking to my palms, that makes me cringe. Not just in the way where I feel I might need to wash my hands at some point in the future, but in the way where I feel the compulsion to run as quickly as I can to a sink, let the water run over my skin, and scrub as hard as possible until there is nothing left but clean hands.
So, I’ve become really good at carrying around wet wipes in my bag, and I always stake out the bathroom and sink when I go somewhere new. I eat sticky food with silverware, even if it’s technically finger food, and I eat anything messy that I must eat with my fingers with the tip of my thumb and pointer finger so that I can stay as clean as possible.
It’s part of my crazy, but it’s been my entire life, so I’m pretty used to it, and by this time, so is my family.