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ofearthandstars) wrote2013-11-08 08:25 pm
ofearthandstars) wrote2013-11-08 08:25 pm
Entry tags:
This feels like whimsy.
Yesterday on a whim I decided to paint my fingernails. Now every time I look down at my hands, I jump back a little, not quite sure what dark vague thing is eating my fingertips. I haven't painted my nails since elementary school, when my mom bought me some awful-tasting nail polish that was intended to discourage me from biting my nails.
My nails are quite short - super short, on some fingers. This is because the nasty-tasting nail polish never worked, and I have a nasty habit of ripping at my fingernails any time I am stressed (which is all the time). My toenails are much harder to reach, so they are usually safe. ;)
I also have had this hang-up about the fact that I have "old hands". It sounds silly, but even since high school I've been self-conscious of the thin skin/lines on my hands and my funny-looking joints. Luckily, since I decided not to become a dish detergent model, I haven't had to face the fear of people staring at my hands very many times in my life.
But then when I put on this nail polish yesterday, I saw that my short, scrawny nails are actually kinda cute. And really, who's going to be examining my hands as closely as I do? I had this warm and fuzzy little thought at the time: that I love myself enough to put on polish if it makes me feel good, even if my hands are not particularly dainty or pretty.
This post, it is so silly, I know. Just bear with me. I feel like if I'm going to write about nail polish, I should be reminding myself that I don't owe anybody nail polish or make-up or pretty; or I should deconstruct the idea of nail polish as a greater symbol of patriarchal oppression. But I'm not - it's just me, and, uhm, thoughts on the fact that rosy sparkly pink nail polish made me feel good about myself in some larger way.
See.... because I tear at my nails when I'm stressed, there is usually a fingernail that is sore, or raw, and I get grumpy about it, because I know I shouldn't tear at my nails, but then there are days where I am just all "rawr, fuck it!" and tear them because there is no other way to make the trembling monster of fear/anxiety inside of me shut the hell up, and then I hurt, and then I hurt more, but in that different non-physical way, and then I just flail around with sore fingers.
Today, when I was looking at my rosy, sparkly nails, I realized that I would have to work this weekend (stress!), and the landlord's repairman hadn't come to fix my leaky sink (stress!), and the house has to be super-cleaned by next Friday because some guy is coming to measure all my windows to replace them (stress!). So I started to pick at my nails. But then there was rosy sparkly nail polish, like the kind one should wear if one is looking to walk through a dense forest and wander across a unicorn. So while pondering this, I realized, you don't need to hurt yourself to get through this.
And that -- that, you see, is part of a much bigger picture for me.
♥
My nails are quite short - super short, on some fingers. This is because the nasty-tasting nail polish never worked, and I have a nasty habit of ripping at my fingernails any time I am stressed (which is all the time). My toenails are much harder to reach, so they are usually safe. ;)
I also have had this hang-up about the fact that I have "old hands". It sounds silly, but even since high school I've been self-conscious of the thin skin/lines on my hands and my funny-looking joints. Luckily, since I decided not to become a dish detergent model, I haven't had to face the fear of people staring at my hands very many times in my life.
But then when I put on this nail polish yesterday, I saw that my short, scrawny nails are actually kinda cute. And really, who's going to be examining my hands as closely as I do? I had this warm and fuzzy little thought at the time: that I love myself enough to put on polish if it makes me feel good, even if my hands are not particularly dainty or pretty.
This post, it is so silly, I know. Just bear with me. I feel like if I'm going to write about nail polish, I should be reminding myself that I don't owe anybody nail polish or make-up or pretty; or I should deconstruct the idea of nail polish as a greater symbol of patriarchal oppression. But I'm not - it's just me, and, uhm, thoughts on the fact that rosy sparkly pink nail polish made me feel good about myself in some larger way.
See.... because I tear at my nails when I'm stressed, there is usually a fingernail that is sore, or raw, and I get grumpy about it, because I know I shouldn't tear at my nails, but then there are days where I am just all "rawr, fuck it!" and tear them because there is no other way to make the trembling monster of fear/anxiety inside of me shut the hell up, and then I hurt, and then I hurt more, but in that different non-physical way, and then I just flail around with sore fingers.
Today, when I was looking at my rosy, sparkly nails, I realized that I would have to work this weekend (stress!), and the landlord's repairman hadn't come to fix my leaky sink (stress!), and the house has to be super-cleaned by next Friday because some guy is coming to measure all my windows to replace them (stress!). So I started to pick at my nails. But then there was rosy sparkly nail polish, like the kind one should wear if one is looking to walk through a dense forest and wander across a unicorn. So while pondering this, I realized, you don't need to hurt yourself to get through this.
And that -- that, you see, is part of a much bigger picture for me.
♥