Note: If you were among those who were offended by my blog “The Curls Have It”, stop reading now. This one is not about my hair, but about something equally inane, yet wildly (disturbingly?) important to me. If you are still curious, you may proceed.
For as long (or longer) than I care to remember, I have gone to great lengths to ensure that my fingernails look perfect at all times. Along with my trusty mascara, it is a constant that I rely upon which makes me feel like everything is going to be okay while lulling me into a (clearly false) sense of security. Because I find even the slightest chip to be offensive, I have had acrylic nails for, oh, I don’t know…fifteen years. I ensure that whoever is doing my nails make them as thin and natural as possible as my love of good acrylic nails is trumped only by my hatred of bad ones. It is not easy to be the person assigned to beautify my digits, so when I find someone who gets it, I am rabidly loyal. While I have been known to embrace dark colors (think “Smokin’ Hot” and “Lincoln Park After Dark”) more often than not I go for the French. I never wear red. Ever. Occasionally I will go pink, but always regret it. I take this seriously, boys and girls.
Notable times I have had my nails done: before all graduations, weddings and Bar Mitzvahs (well, duh…everyone does that!), the day before each – I was induced to give birth, my bi-lateral mastectomy, my father’s funeral and my third (in a six-week period) back surgery. Seeing a theme here? Setting myself up for a positive feeling before diving into scary, unknown situations is key to my ability to hang on. And in all the in-between down time during which my nails look perfect (I know it doesn’t seem as though I have much of that these days…) I consider a bonus. Bottom line, my nails always look great. (No, seriously, people have commented on how great my nails look. More than once. Ridiculous but true.)
Of late, I have even been sharing my treasured manicure time with Jessie. It was novel at first – having been the mom of two boys for ten years I will cop to getting a bit of a rush in teaching my daughter about the joys of well-appointed fingers. Each time she has joined me she has opted for a neon color and little flowers painted on two nails (I never cease to be amazed at their ability to paint so crisply on such a tiny space!) and I have taught her that sitting patiently to dry all the way is of utmost importance…nothing worse than the smudge that will ensue for those who do not embrace this exercise. The novelty is somewhat mellowed by that fact that she is only moderately interested, and has not quite adopted my addiction…buzz kill.
But now (surely you saw that “but” coming) I have an issue. My left ring finger in trouble. The nail is starting to separate from the skin (gross, right?) and while it is not suffering from a fungus yet, it was strongly recommended to me, through somewhat broken English, that I lay off the polish and the gel and the acrylic which I so adore and let my nails grow out, unadorned with color. #iamsosad.
As pathetic as it may seem, particularly amid all the craziness of everything in my life right now, this was the event that nearly drove me to tears, right there in the nail salon. I felt my eyes welling up and willed myself to save the tears (and resulting puffy eyes) for something (more) important. I couldn’t, frankly, imagine why I was so shook up until I realized that it was now official: the one thing that I thought I still had control over had betrayed me. Game over. Ugh.
Here is what I am left with:
Which means that this is on the back burner:
And so is this…for now: