Through this past spring and summer and fall, I didn’t remember where I left my winter gloves. If I thought about them at all, I assumed I had left them in a coat pocket.
Then it got cold. My hands got blotchy red and the skin over my knuckles cracked so that it hurt to wash my hands or bend my fingers. And the gloves weren’t in my coat. Or my rain jacket. Or my old battered jacket I wear to shovel snow. Or anyplace reasonable.
And practically everything I did made my hands hurt.
So, having looked everyplace a reasonable woman would put her gloves when the weather turned warm, I started looking in unreasonable places. And there they were, out of sight behind a pile of books. Ah, the joy of pulling gloves on over my poor sore knuckles before walking out into January.