I learned this week that first-grade math is too hard, my joints are falling apart and fake eyelashes are a demonic creation.

First, my son came home with a word problem. We sat down at the kitchen table to read:

"If there are twice as many blue balloons as red balloons and two more yellow balloons than green balloons, why is Elon Musk spending so much time arguing with Stephen King on Twitter?"

"Isn't this ... algebra?" I grumbled while scribbling furiously on a sheet of scratch paper.

"What's algebra?" my son asked.

"It's really hard math," I said as the sweat popped up on my forehead. "Math that Mommy didn't do so hot at in school, which is why she ended up a journalist."

"Three yellow balloons!" my 4-year-old exclaimed in delight.

Eventually, between the three of us, we solved the problem, but then I decided to put on fake eyelashes.

At the drug store, I also bought fake nails, the super-long kind that make it impossible to type, open a soda can or wipe your butt.

Maybe I thought the lashes and nails would make me look more feminine. I've cut off most of my hair, to help grow out the gray quicker, and from certain angles I look a little too much like my brother.

So, one fine day, while the kids were at school, I devoted myself to applying the lashes.

I took them out of their packaging and held one up, close to my face so I could see without my glasses.

I uncapped the glue and squeezed. Black liquid bubbled out all over my hand.

"No sweat," I said cheerfully, heading to the sink.

Second try: Hold the lashes, squint and dab a little glue ...

There! Now, wait for it to dry.

And wait. And wait.

OK, that should be fine. Near the lash line but not too close — Well. Hm.

Now I had two rows of eyelashes, one about a half-inch higher than the other.

Didn't Elizabeth Taylor have two rows of eyelashes?

I decided to figure it out later and focus on the other side.

More glue this time, I thought as I squeezed a hefty glob onto the fake lashes. Glue ran down all over my fingers.

I'll clean that up later.

After waiting for the glue to dry, I applied the lashes. The instant I touched them to my face, black glue flowed out over my eyelid and into my eye, which instantly began to burn.

I comforted myself with the thought that if the glue blinded me, I could retire after the lawsuit.

I ran back to the sink. Pulling at the eyelashes, one row flipped off and almost went down the drain.

I should let it go, I thought.

My hands and face were black. The congealing glue had turned into tiny, bug-like dots, and my eyes were surrounded by black slime.

"Looking good," the mirror said.

I realized then that I was going to be late for physical therapy, which I'm getting for "moderate osteoarthritis" that my doctor charitably told me I'm a "little young for."

The physical therapist threatened me with a hip replacement so I can't miss even a single appointment.

In retrospect, probably not the best time to put on fake eyelashes.

I scrubbed furiously with my fingers and toilet paper and, in a particularly ill-advised move, hand soap, until it finally all came off. It only took 20 minutes and my last scrap of dignity.

Thankfully, the glue, the math problem and the physical therapy appointment are all in the past now.

I'm left only with the memories and the priceless knowledge that my eyelashes are fine as they are.

Maybe I'll wait until next week to put on the fake nails.

To learn more about Georgia Garvey, visit GeorgiaGarvey.com.

Photo credit: DaModernDaVinci at Pixabay