You all know I am just out of the hospital a few days now. I was out only a few hours when I discovered that my fingertips shimmered in the dark. No, it wasn’t some reaction to a drug I was given. It wasn’t a remnant of some procedure done. No, it was glitter. Glitter. That shimmery, flaky stuff that adorns cards, bows, wreaths, probably even some brands of toothpaste for all I know. Oh how I hate glitter.

While protected under the blanket of sterility and cleanliness of the hospital I was able to enjoy a couple of weeks knowing my immediate environs were blissfully glitter-free. Then I got better. I was released to the world overrun with those sparkly specks. Oh how I hate glitter.

Why do I so hate glitter? First consider that I too recognize the prettiness of light twinkling from multiple surfaces. I just wish one of those surfaces wasn’t me! Once I come into contact with glitter it is with me forever. I can’t wipe it off. I can’t blow it off. It doesn’t wash off, scrape off, or soak off. It doesn’t even loofah off. Glitter on me is like iron filings on a magnet.

I think we need to establish some glitter rules. First, no surprise glitter. If I see a glitter gilded wreath on a door I will gladly climb through a window to get into that house. But if you send me a glittery card in a plain, white envelope – that’s just not fair. Second, manufacturers of shiny objects must identify the presence and level of glitter used in the making of said sheen. And third, stores, particularly card and home good shops, must provide a glitter free zone for glitter magnetic consumers.

I’m sure working together we can have a glitter free society where sparkly prettiness and good mental health can coexist.

That’s what I think. Really. How ’bout you.