Tuesday, September 06, 2005

It's Not the Eyes That Are the Windows

If you ever want to know how I'm doing, just look at my nails.

When things are going well, they're manicured, they're a sensible medium length, the cuticles are all nice-like, the polish isn't too chipped. I don't blame chippy polish on my inner condition so much as I do on the quality of nailpolish to be found around here. Either I'm doing something wrong, or the best any polish manufacturer can do is guarantee 12 hours without chipping. It's not like I'm out rock climbing, so what is the deal?

Right now, my nails are hideous. I'd post a picture, but it's just gross what I do to them. When I'm stressed out or nervous about something, I pick. I pick and I pick until there is nothing left but bloody stumps. My cuticles are scabbed over. My nails are ridged and raggedy at the tips, hangnails sticking out at all angles. The polish is a faded layer of pink, hearkening back to a distant, happier time.

It doesn't take much to go from good nails to bad nails. All I need is five minutes of turmoil to destroy a month's worth of shiny happy nails. Some people have their stress balls and punching bags; I've got my nails, with me at all times, always at the ready for gnawing.