MANICURED
Working an office job has been a constant struggle to keep manicured. My theory, grumbled to family as I paint my dead cells creamy pink—or, most recently, a festive silver, is that manicures are for people who do not live.
There was the week so busy I went to work with the nails of only one hand polished; by the time I got around to painting the others, I had to redo what there was {or ever had been} of a manicure.
Usually, however, I manage to get both hands painted and perfect. That is, they are painted and perfect for thirty minutes.
If that. I have trouble waiting for each coat to dry when I still have a to-do-list. I've 'painted nails'; what's next? I wave my hands and blow on the fresh lacquer while I type blog posts, decline Latin nouns, watch a documentary on Giotto, recite poetry, listen to Coralie read Agatha Christie, or stand on a bright-green inflatable with more than fifteen pounds and five feet of PVC pipe strapped to various part of my body*. Or some combination of these things. Sometimes I try more daring things, like tidying the house or waltzing in the kitchen or going to bed.
I suspect that Hazel has an internal monitor and alarm system; she immediately hones in on me. 'What do you think you're doing?! Are those nails dry? Sit down!'
I sit down meekly, and blow on my nails. Thanks to Hazel's vigilance, they usually dry without smudges and without the interesting texture my bed sheets give them.
But then life recommences, and nothing I do is good for a manicure. I...
commute by bicycle
lock and unlock my bicycle
type emails and reports
open envelopes and packages
punch numbers on the phone and calculator
file papers in duo-tang folders
look for the keys in my purse
chase my brothers
deflect their attempts to tickle me
wash dishes with scouring pads and hot water
dust the slatted door
iron laundry
pet the cat
clean the refrigerator
go to the library sale
wrap presents
play Dutch Blitz
teach folk dance
wash my hair
exfoliate
use a fountain pen
pull a book from my packed shelves
take a hike
stir hot oatmeal
chop vegetables
grate parmesan cheese
take dinner out of the oven
scrub the counter grout
practice high notes on the recorder
try to open a jar
...and after a day or two those rosy fingertips retain only ragged vestiges of their former glory, and it is time to paint them again. And to find a way to safely multitask. And to hide from Hazel.
*That would be posture training. 3.5 hours weekly means many chapters of Agatha Christie, many hours of lectures and documentary films that I can't quite see because my chin must stay UP, and many conversations with whichever family members happen to be around {conversation which invariably begins, 'You look hilarious.'}.
• Gardening is not good for manicures, either, but I haven’t been doing any of that recently. This is an old photograph of Hazel. •
December 16, 2014