About a month ago, I stumbled on a blog here on WordPress in which a young lady did a decent job of sharing her ideas for healthy living. I’ll call it a lifestyle blog, with hundreds of dedicated followers. She included vegetarian recipes, skin and body care tips, make-up and nail care, fashion suggestions, sans real fur. She welcomed suggestions and comments. Typical girly stuff, the kind of stuff many women find so appealing. As to me, not really, I have my own agenda. And it doesn’t include girly nails.
If I had girly nails, I couldn’t shovel horse poop. I couldn’t put halters or lead lines on my ponies or clean and trim their hooves. I couldn’t type or play my ukulele. I couldn’t chop vegetables or write with a pen. I couldn’t groom my rabbits. If I had girly nails, I’d accidentally scratch everyone and feel awful about it. (I tried nails, I scratched.) I couldn’t button my own buttons or make a fist without digging my nails into my palm. I couldn’t garden or pick up those quarters I find everywhere. Wait, there’s more….and more…. and more…
Girly nails are a handicap and I’m not talking about chess, golf or horse racing kind of handicap. The idea of losing my fingertips to long, decorated appendages seems bizarre. And frankly, I’m thoroughly sick and tired of seeing the thousands of variations of painted nails on Pinterest. What’s really going on there? Don’t women have anything else to do with their hands? Did your grandmother ever sport girly nails? Not on your life. Grandma had work to do. Girly nails weren’t invented yet – there wasn’t time for such frivolous things.
Please don’t tell me you “do” your toenails to match. If you do “do,” your toenails to match, I’m sure you wear the open toe shoes or expensive leather sandals with the rhinestones or some other frou-frou crap on them, to show off the second set of girly nails. Do you know anyone who really wants to see your toes? I know I don’t. And the only way I’ll ever look at them is if you stepped on a nail or something and need help.
Speaking of needing help, when I was in my mid 30’s, I had two small daughters, sleeping upstairs. I’d often lie with them until they fell asleep. I jumped off of the bed and wham – direct hit on a cone of doily thread with a steel crochet hook sticking out of it. The hook planted itself in my foot, between my toes, faster than a speeding bullet. (Is there any other kind?) Don’t worry, it didn’t hurt going in… I gave it a tug, more than once, and it wasn’t budging.
I didn’t give my toenails a thought on my way down the stairs, on my butt, step by step, impaled foot up, all the while trying not to disturb my two baby girls. Back then, all we had were landlines and pagers. I called everyone I knew, but as is the story of my life, no one was available. The good of it though was that I got to listen to at least ten or fifteen samples of recordings on answering machines. I thought for a minute and called the non-emergency police line, rather than sit in the house with a hook stuck in my foot, my toes, complete with naked, plain toenails and nothing to do but wait.
Think I was thrilled about being taken to an emergency room by a bunch of handsome guys in a big red flying machine with a silver metal thing sticking in, then out of my foot? I repeated the address of where my husband was, and as if by magic, I became a thing with a thing stuck out of my thing. They didn’t notice my fingernails OR toenails and neither did I.
Feel free to let your mind wander and wonder how this blog post connects to the young lady’s blog post. Stay tuned.