What is it with men and lotion? I've never known a one of them that could use it on their own-somes.

Here it is, the end of February, and my husband's skin is dry and itching. So I do what all of us good wives do. I procure for him an industrial sized bottle of uber-strength, scentless lotion to call his own. (I'm not mad enough at him to send him off smelling like girl lotion...)

So there his lotion sits, unopened, on the bathroom counter. I point it out to him, in case he's missed it. I know how hard it is to spot a gargantuan vat of lotion that's hiding in plain sight. He nods absently at me and continues scratching his legs. "Are you itchy too?" he asks wide-eyed and mystified.

At this point I realize that I'm going to have to take this situation in hand. "Come with me," I order him. I tell him we are having a beauty night. I can virtually hear him thinking, 'Oh goody' in his best -what fresh hell is this- voice. But he's always a good sport. I apply a face mask while he, gamely, clips his toenails. I lure him into the shower to make his skin nice and soft. Then I do the unthinkable. (Oh the horror of it all!!!)

I ambush him as soon as he steps out. I apply a good thick coat of lotion - everywhere - on him. (The poor thing!) He has the same desperate look on his face that a cat has while trying to escape from bath water. He stands on his tippy-toes to try to get further away from the offending slime I'm slathering on him. He starts complaining that all his arm, leg and chest hair is now (forevermore) matted down.

Ten minutes later, I teasingly check up on him. "Hey, has your arm hair popped back up again?" "Almost," his reply is earnestly miserable."You kinda suck at this beauty night thing." I observe. "Wot? I clipped my toenails," he proudly points out. Deep inside, I know in my heart of hearts, that he would have used his teeth if he could have. Using the clippers is only a concession to the decreased limberness of age. But that's another story.

Another ten minutes and I ask, "Doesn't that feel better?"

"No," he replies through a still disgusted sulk. "It feels gross. And now my shirt is sticking to me."

I reach out and scratch his kneecap. "But there, see? You can't scratch your name into your knee anymore. What would you do without me?"

"Apparently, I'd be sitting here, scratching my name into my knee cap."

After work the next day, he asks me how I slept. "Fine," I chirp. He informs me that he didn't, in fact, sleep fine. Due to the gruesome lotion~ing he's endured, the sheets and various and sundry dog and cat hair have all stuck to him all night long preventing any kind of restful sleep he might have enjoyed. He complains that, furthermore, when he stepped into the shower in the morning, it took multiple minutes for water and soap to penetrate the offensive re-wetted layer of lotion sludge I so wantonly and joyously afflicted on him. He's not convinced it will ever come off as his morning shirt was still sticking annoyingly to his skin. He concludes this diatribe by stating he left the house mad.

I almost fall down I'm laughing so hard at him. He's glad I'm enjoying this so much.

Oh how I love this man. This same man who endured a mandated, (by me of course,) manicure prior to our wedding because of the hands/ring pictures we would have to take. (As it turned out, there was only one and you can almost see his entire pinky nail in it.) This same man whose mother innocently remarks, "Someone should get a picture of this event," knowing that I would LOVE that idea and ask around for a camera which she conveniently has in her purse. This same man who, on our wedding day, was asked by a fellow big-brained scientist and co-worker, "Are you wearing nailpolish?!"

It's a wonder he trusts me at all. I love my lotion resistant husband.

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