sometimes it feels good to just wash your hands

I was a waitress.

I was sitting on the sink in the ladies room, smoking, crying, mascara running down my face - when another girl who worked there walked in.

She knew why I was crying.

She had witnessed it.

I had been treated in a sub-human way.

my god

She smiled, washed her hands and said to me, "..sometimes it feels good to just wash your hands, you know?"

It was a more touchy-feely time, the nineties (to be sure).

We all were a lot younger back then, too.

And glittery. We wore quite a lot of glitter (in those days).

We were mostly still learning about life (while making incredible amounts of money) all of us thinking it would still be even better, later (somehow).

Though, it still stands today.

What she said.

It does feel really good to just wash your hands, sometimes.

Then this girl dried her hands and told me to "buck up".

Buck up, princess.

That's what she said.

We all said it, at one time or another.

princess

That is what we called each other. All of the time. It was code, though.

Don't be fooled.

princess

Both an endearment and an insult. And meant wholly to keep each other in line.

That is, you never wanted to be called "princess", but if you were, it was probably with love.

Conversely, you never called any known enemies "princess", because then you were "dead".

Such was the anthropological inner workings of that particular nightclub.

buck up + count your money = remember why you are here (princess)

Ok?

Yep. And for some reason this is all I remember about that girl.

sometimes it feels good to just wash your hands

And, you know, I really love to wash my hands.

Not in any crazy compulsive way.

Though, just a minute ago, I did wash my hands (just for the joy of it) and it seemed to change the whole course that my day was taking.

First the cool water (that I let become warm).

(that's how it starts)

Then the soap itself.

Today: a mild, lovely soap.

The lather: generous.

The scent: just so.

Neither astringent nor drying.

Just clean.

Perfectly clean.

And, as I rinse the soap off of my hands, there is (in the end) no residue left on my skin.

Nor anything "stripping" (nor ruining) of my ph balance.

That is, no regrets.

The drying (a whole process in and of itself) went very well: the towel had just been laundered and was still slightly warm from the dryer.

I then employed my hand cream.

This, too, went very well.

I give it an eight (the hand washing - the whole thing).

It wasn't bad.

I then walked back out of the bathroom and went on with my day.

And, isn't that the point?

Of course, I thought of her.

I always do.

While washing my hands.

The girl from twelve years ago.

(or was it fifteen?)

Don't you think of her, too, when you wash your hands?

If not, I promise you will after reading this post. For the rest of your life, you will.

It's my gift to you.

No. No problem; I mean, you're welcome.

And, here, I'm writing about it now (so ironic).

It's the circle of life, you might say. In real time. Right here. At frankenmonsterblog.

I think of her every time I wash my hands.

And now, so shall you.

This is no fault of her own.

It just turned out that way.

So, here we are.

Now I wonder just what thing I said that is now continually assigned to "me"?

I hope it's not, "get out of my face, jaggoff.."

(though it probably is)

Whatever.

(buck up, princess)