This is me…

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.

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