The Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Fortune

While the last three days have by no means unexciting, the main event that unfortunately sticks out in my memory is the skin irritation on my hands, probably caused by contact with too severe a soap as well as the dry air. At first it merely looked like a small army of mosquitoes had alighted on my hands and left behind the small mounds that are the usual calling-cards of the species. My left hand already had a tendency to swell and be red. On the first evening I consulted the dermatological section of Merck's Manual. While it much comforted me to realize how many unpleasant disorders I didn't have, it did not help that much. Three points I picked up on were to avoid exposing the skin to strong soaps, to try menthol in a dissolving base (as it happens, we have an anti-cold salve that answers that description precisely), and to expose the skin to direct sunlight. The menthol soothed the most figuratively as well as literally irritating bouts of itch, but neither it nor a moisturizing hand cream nor a skin lotion nor leaving the whole thing alone have cured the problem. Of course I know not to touch the afflicted areas, let alone scratch them. Anyway, this morning both my hands had ballooned and turned quite red, and I contemplated going to a doctor with still greater conviction. But we don't have health insurance here yet, since the company that has insured Mama has, in the infinite dubiousness of its wisdom, decided not to extend the privilege to her dependents.

Last evening I read an article about poor Third World people and told myself that it put everything in perspective. So it did until this morning, when I could not help forgetting my broader philosophical thoughts. For the rest of the day I've been cranky and miserable, shedding the occasional furtive tear much as I did yesterday evening. Reading is a good mode of distraction, and I've been able to indulge in it well. But of course the piano can only be played at certain hours. Exercise in the form of walks has not seemed to help much, though I intend to see what a really long walk can do. Then the nagging presence of my hand-affliction reinforces the nagging presence of similarly pathological thoughts about the possible ill success of my writing career, and a possible lifetime of loneliness and unfulfillment. When I can't go to sleep easily in the evening because of said hands the thoughts are particularly hard to get rid of.

Perhaps I shouldn't have George Gissing's New Grub Street as my bedtime reading either. But I hadn't realized when I read it for university how delightfully short the sentences are, though it is certainly a Victorian book. What I did already realize then is how excellent the observation is. It's probably a bad indication when Edwin Reardon writer's block, intellectual isolation, despair, etc., are described and I mentally exclaim, "I know exactly what he's talking about!" But I think I am more practical than he is, at least in theory.

Anyway, enough direct and indirect moping! Most people on earth probably have a much harder lot than mine, and my problems are by no means unsolvable.