(I don't) I just love orange. Probably because my mother loved it and I try to find ways to honor her memory. I rarely pick red. Not my favorite and in winter way too Christmassy. People think I'm festive. (I'm not)
This leaves me pinks and purples. Yellows and greens - though I admit I've never chosen either of those hues. I have braved a few shades of blue. Turquoise is lovely, navy is too close to black. Medium tones of blue denote those Broncos again... I try to stretch this necessary pampering out to every five weeks in summer; six in winter. But I always regret that decision. I am on a medication for Rheumatoid Arthritis (RA) that thins my hair and splits my nails. It seems my big toe likes to crack in half right down the middle. I've come to view a pedicure as practically a medical necessity. I'm determined to overcome my thriftiness by committing to every three weeks in summer and four during shoe season.
As much as I love having my toes done, I am not a manicure kind of gal. My fingers look fat and feel swollen from the inflammation associated with having RA. My nails are best kept short; before the breaking point. I take folic acid daily to countereffect some the hair and nail issues caused by methotrexate. Once a week, 6 to 12 hours after my self-injection of this 'cancer' drug, I ingest another medicine to further ward off the awful effects of taking a 'cure' that has my hair coming out in handfuls. My nails thinning and splitting.
Last week I attended a day-long writer's conference. I was seated next to Sandi Rhynard, the president of the Poetry Society of Colorado. I noticed her hands. They looked nice. Trim with square cut nails; painted bright red. I should have told her that her hands looked lovely. Clean. Ready to get to it. And by it I mean writing. Her hands got me to thinking how as writers (and she is a writer, as am I) our hands are our tools. Almost vise-like as they hold the implement - be it pencil or pen - that enables us to scribble words on to a page. Even when I choose to use my keyboard are my hands not the appendage doing the bidding of my brain? What is in my mind is ultimately tapped out by my digits. And who is it that gazes at these hands all day? Why that would be me. I follow my hand on the page while writing to ensure that I stay in the lines and don't exceed the margins.
When I type I am still looking at my hands. All ten fingers in full view. Shouldn't I have something pleasant to look at?
I've spent too many years picking at my cuticles and filing down nicks. I've also become self conscious of the size of my fingers, though my Rheumy assures me they are "not too bad." I stopped wearing rings ages ago as to not draw attention to my hands. Maybe I have this all wrong? So when I called my nail place to get a same day appointment for a much needed foot fix, I easily replied yes when she upsold me to include a manicure.
I try not to overthink, but call me guilty! All day I lamented the extra cost. I couldn't stop thinking about whether I would go matchy-matchy or let the upper and lower halves of my body go rogue. I wondered why technicians always do the toes first, when it seems more logical to give my hands more time to dry. After all my toes only have to grip the front part of my very expensive, anatomically correct flip-flops. On the other hand - HA! - my hands have so much to do post manicure. Pay for the services, dig out my car keys, start and steer the car. Seriously the list is endless. But I don't control the world, let alone this Asian nail salon - which I only mention because they sell homemade wontons as a side business. Random, but true.
In the end I pick a medium shade of pink to grace my keratin. It is not millennial pink which I did not even know was a thing until Nina Garcia mentioned it on Project Runway. More to my own generation, I would call it Bazooka Joe pink, after the famously hard, tooth breaking, jaw aching bubble gum of my youth. But the comic strip wrapper was an easy read! I could stretch my imagination to say Pepto Bismol pink, but my mother actually never made me drink that vile bismuth concoction. Thank goodness for the little things.
I get home and I am pretty darn happy. One could even say tickled pink. My toes look good, the split repaired. Even and smooth. Ready for the pool, yoga and dance. My hands look good. No hanging cuticles. The gorilla look temporarily banished by a generous slathering of lotion. However they are not ready. Not ready to do dishes or any form of housework because I have no Playtex gloves! The last thing I want to happen is messing up my mani before 24 hours have even passed. I put my OCD aside and let the evening and the morning dishes sit. Aaggh! Dollar Tree to the rescue. I will conquer the sink when I return home.
I have been sitting here writing and holding down the page with my left hand and every time I see those little pops of pink I smile. I feel feminine. Professional perhaps. My hand(s) are my means to penning my poetry, prose and prattle. I buy or liberate nice pens so the ink will flow smoothly. I purchase cute notebooks and pads in order to spark something good (hopefully) to grace the pages. A manicure seems a natural extension.
Here's my happy note. I feel good with my hands looking good. I may have to budget this treat and do it regularly. I'm pretty in pink!
Time to Write,
Jane
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