For the past three years, my fingernails have been a popular topic of conversation in my household. My fingernails: Are they in my mouth again? Are they being shredded by my cuticle nippers? Will they ever look normal? Can you please stop gnawing at them – I’m trying to watch TV without getting grossed out. (Answers: Yes. Yes. No. No.) Last night, after much struggle, I finally put on the fake acrylic nails that I bought last week in order to look pretty for vacation.
D: Are you going to put the nails on tonight?
W: Yes. Yes I am. Just give me time to adjust to the idea and say goodbye.
D: That’s been your excuse for a week.
W: I don’t think you realize the intensity of this emotional attachment.
…Two hours later…
D: Are you going to put the nails on?
W: Yes, I just need a few last bites.
Much hand-washing, sighing, and guilt-tripping ensues.
W: The chemicals in this nail glue are probably going to give me cancer.
At bedtime…
W: I can’t take my contacts out with these stupid nails. Can you fix the sheets? I can’t fix them with these godforsaken nails. I feel completely ineffectual. I feel like you forced me to get a lobotomy. I feel abandoned by my best friends. Today I wore my hair all wispy around my face the way you like it and I put on the nails. I am basically your slave.
D: I have lost my sense of humor about this.