I sometimes wonder if my dogmatic distaste for chapstick is having a negative effect on my psyche. Every now and again during the winter months, someone will say something funny, and I find I have to force myself to smile, because my lips are cracking and it’s a bit painful. From December to March, I end up subconsciously repressing smiles, which is at least as bad, psychologically, as repressing a sneeze.
But the alternative, the nastifying, albeit admittedly short-term, frustration of having a smudgy layer of stuff on your lips all the time, that makes everything you eat taste funny: that is not even an option. You can’t win, I guess.