To the editor:
When I think of an inanimate help-mate, can you believe it when I don’t first suggest an elevator, an escalator, an electric blanket, a garbage disposal, but rather, a trusty pair of cuticle scissors?
Well, I mean it. I reach for them when I’m confronted with a seemingly impenetrable plastic sheathing for a pill I have to take for blood pressure. Burrowing deeply, my fingers at risk from the sharpness of their blades, they always deliver.
Then, too, there are the deeply embedded pills for the relief of diarrhea, which I was trained not to mention by a mother who also felt duty-bound to forbid terms like “pregnancy” and “uterus” — the distinguishing characteristics of womanhood. No wonder I couldn’t make a claim to any femininity which in my day, now long gone, would guarantee a spouse on graduation from college.
Fortunately for me, World War II had us in its grip and women were seemingly in short supply.
Any time I’m faced with a stubborn snippit of paper covering important information, out come the cuticle scissors. I take comfort in their reliability and dependability.
Would that politicians showed these traits. Would that we always treated one another reliably.
Cuticle scissors have a lot to teach us.
Chapel Street, Gloucester