Moving from England to Las Vegas has come with its fair share of life adjustments (if you hadn’t already noticed from this blog!).
Amongst these was something I did not see coming. Something that was never an issue in the UK because it was rarely hot (or warm, for that matter) and the humidity was a lot higher.
Plus it rained….a lot.
So what is this new stress in my life?
Dry skin.
Now, in the past when I have visited this fine city as a tourist, it was always hot and I spent a lot of the time slathered in cream; mooching along the strip, shopping, eating, gambling or simply laid out by the pool getting shitfaced.
All of this was fine because I was covered in enough cream to mistake me for a female porn star at the end of a shoot (pun intended).
In case it wasn’t clear I was always moisturised.
The same can be said now that I live in Las Vegas…but only when it’s hot. I’m either covered in factor 100, sitting under a huge umbrella or neck deep in a pool.
It’s a hard life.
Without any form of sun protection, I tend to resemble a cooked lobster…in glasses.
I am, without question, the sun’s bitch.
However, it’s currently Winter here in sin city which means I’m covered in layers of clothing rather than cream based chemicals and the lack of humidity in Nevada has resulted in me having incredibly dry skin. This is especially so on the most exposed parts of my body; my hands.
It was getting to the point where it was hurting. I was worried about making a fist in case my hand crumbled like dry leaves. This was difficult because lots of things in life make me want to make a fist.
To combat this I decided to be a bit of a girl and buy hand moisturiser (that’s ‘moisturizer’ to my American friends…just in case you guys aren’t sure what I mean). So last week I went to Wal-Mart and headed to the skin care aisle.
Fuck me, there are a lot of moisturisers on the market.
I was stood there for at least 5 minutes trying to decide which hand cream would be the best. I was getting some strange looks from people as I tried to decide which would be the best without spending $15.
Seriously?
$15 for a tube of moisturiser? That stuff had better be laced with heroin.
Eventually I settled on a small unassuming tube of Vaseline intensive care because…
- I recognised the brand
- It was specifically designed for hands and
- It was fragrance free. I did NOT want to smell like yo’ mama!
And that was the end of that. My hands are now pain free and supple.
It’s not an exciting story, nor does it have a particularly witty climax.
Or so I thought….
Fast forward to yesterday at work. A friend came over to my desk to see how I was doing and, during the conversation, I pulled out my tube of cream and started applying it to my hands.
“Sorry about this. I know it’s a bit girly, but my hands are so dry. I don’t usually use moisturiser”
He smiled at me. It was a smile I didn’t recognise.
“Sure you don’t”, he said.
I was confused.
He continued to smile at me, adding an eyebrow wiggle.
There was a further pause as he realised I didn’t have a fucking clue what he was getting at.
“You…you DO know what I’m referring to, right? You know, ‘moisturizer’?”[1]
The penny dropped.
It was my turn to smile.
“Sorry mate.” I said, “I don’t need it. That’s the difference between us Brits and you guys”
It was his turn to look confused.
Peek-a-boo
This did get me thinking about my trip to Wal-Mart though. To me, I was trying to figure out which hand cream would best moisturise my poor cracked hands. To others I was openly looking for a lubricant; picking them up, smelling them and basically making a performance of choosing a decent dick cream.
No wonder I got strange looks.
Now that I think about it, people were scurrying away; probably before I had the opportunity to ask them which one they thought would be best for some good ol’ fashioned self abuse.
Us Brits don’t need it.
Not where we come from.
Not in our hood.
Gotta love the little wrinkled bugger….
[1] Spelt the American way, because he’s American and would’ve said it that way.
Head In A Blender 