The Frisky’s got this article up about all the ways a bitch can fuck up her nails. I lol’ed as I read it, but also hung my head in shame -- because I am a lady whose hands mostly resemble two twin packages of economy sausage meats. CLASSY AND DELICIOUS.
As a mild to manageable hypochondriac, being writer is great, because it presents you with a lot of actual ailments. Usually none of them require hospitalization (minus a cyst I developed on my wrist that made it look like my wrist bone was exploding out of my skin when in fact my skeleton was just leaking -- AWESOME). They are the sort of silly aches and pains that feel earned but not burdensome.
The only really casualty of my white-collar existence? My hands you guys. I already mentioned my wrist, forever sullied by the subsequent scar from aforementioned skeletal leakage. By it’s not just my wrist. My fingers creak and ache like aging oak trees. Probs because I paid zero attention in any of my typing classes and so blindly stab at the keys with eight fingers all pell mell, my pinkies perpetually arched and useless, just like Lady Edith Crawley. (SUCK IT, EDITH.)
My nails are the worst of them all. They aren’t bad little flecks of cartilage, they are theoretically nice -- all ovally and strong and what not. But they never really get a chance to prove themselves. If they don’t crack off as I attack the keys, I’m shamelessly ripping them off with my incisors.
Naturally, being a sassy lady type, I try to resolve that ish, all going and paying professional people dollars to make me look presentable and less murdery slash like a five year old.
And I do love getting manicures! For those of you already running to the comments to be like "Get a gel manicure silly!" I say, "BEEN THERE AND DONE THAT AND THERE IS NO AGONY SO EXQUISITE AS WHEN THAT MANICURE GROWS OUT AND YOU START CATCHING YOUR PUBES IN IT AHHH!" Also once in college I tried permanent tips. It was a dark and hilarious time.
All that said, the whole experience does me juuuust uncomfortable enough not to wanna go get one by myself. It’s because I have this terrible habit of talking to basically anyone I meet. I’m the asshole who feels ACTUAL PRESSURE upon boarding a full elevator. Seriously, I mentally go, “OK, show time!” before quietly stepping aboard and opening with a hearty “Good, I’m glad everyone could make it -- let’s get this meeting started!” (Usually, I’ll have you know, to be greeted with much mirth.)
It goes to follow that if I’m in a situation where someone is tenderly lotioning and massaging one of my little raccoon-esque mitts while I dandle wet glass balls in a dish of shallow water, I am GOING to ask them if they have been very busy today. I have no choice! That lady is basically holding my hand! You can’t pretend the person who is holding your hand is not there! I mean you can, but if you are it usually means you are breaking up soon!
It’s always terrible because usually the lady doing my nails is all “Dude, this is my job, please just read another year old copy of Us Magazine like every other normal person here.” And then we both cry.
(Side note -- why do they always have tightly wrapped hard candy right by the drying bar? It’s like, what fresh hell is this that you present me with Werther’s I cannot readily consume due to my moist, toxic talons? A pox upon thee unattainable Werther’s!*
Usually I avoid getting my nails did for this reason, and for the whole thing where I am a beast who will gnaw off her own hand and crack all that nice lady’s work to pieces.
I love how pretty a manicure makes me feel the day of, but I hate how delicately it makes me approach the world -- I prefer my frantic, hen-pecking approach to life, all digging staples out of staplers, and prying open chocolate gold coins leaving a strange combination of foil and cocoa reside to linger underneath my nail as a treat for later. If all that means botched white-out spackled nails courtesy of a home treatment, then so be it.
*This is also the title of my memoirs.