On Friday I said to my daughter, “Take all this nail polish, I will never in my whole entire life ever paint my nails again.” Sunday night I painted my nails. Over the next two days, I have picked at my nails and they look like old paint peeling walls. I am like an 8-year-old in a woman’s body when it comes to nail polish.
There is not a single bit of me that is elegant. Except perhaps my coffee cup.
I need someone to take nail polish away from me. It is like doodling to me. Put three things together, a meeting, a pen, paper and instead of copious notes I will produce copious swirls, flowers, feathers, leaves, sometimes odd-looking faces, and one or two words that will jog my memory if I have to do something after the meeting.
The doodles mean nothing to me. I throw them away as heartlessly as I pick at my nail polish.
I do admire lovely nails but the reality is mine will always be gardener’s nails.