I used to roll up my sleeves and tackle dirty dishes, scrubbing pans with the fervor of someone trying to erase poor life choices.

But then… chemo happened. My nails looked like they’d been through a rock tumbler. And one day, while elbow-deep in what I can only describe as “fridge juice,” I had a lightbulb moment:

Dang. Gloves. Exist.

And not just any gloves. Cheap (not as cheap as pre-COVID, but still…), disposable, nitrile gloves. Blue gloves that say, “I’m about to get stuff done.” Suddenly, cleaning the dog’s surprise casserole left on the carpet or touching nasty bugs in the garden or those floating dust bunnies in the bucket, wasn’t just tolerable. It was downright empowering.

If I’m not wearing them, I keep pairs in multiple places:

• Under the kitchen sink (obviously)
• In the bathroom cabinet (doom-wipe at the base)
• In the laundry room (icky stains)
• In the garage (painting and gardening)

They’re like rubbery armor. I once used them to handle a chicken carcass. I didn’t gag once. That, my friends, is growth.

So this is my ode to the humble nitrile glove. May my finger never poke through at the worst moment. May they always be turned right-side-out when I need them. And may they live a long life (at least an hour).