Part of my ride into recent adulthood has included getting professional manicures every 2 weeks. Something makes me feel so feminine and pampered by looking down at these gorgeous, brightly colored nails. This feeling was only heightened when I met a manicurist nearby who was able to create designs on my natural, short nails.
I rather enjoyed the attention that my manicures bought. When I'd stop to make quick purchases, it wasn't uncommon for baristas and cashiers to compliment the complex designs my new manicurist laid out. I even had a man compliment me on my nails yesterday. It made me feel seen in such a small, yet seductive way. I've also heard other men, in passing, say how much they thoroughly enjoy seeing women with freshly manicured nails. Thinking back on it, I don't think it's about the nails themselves. I think it's more about a man being turned on by a woman who is able and capable of keeping herself together.
I was raised to never walk around with chipped, funky nails. The message it sent was akin to walking around, holding a sign that says "I'm a broke harlot with no home training." When your manicure outlives it's usefulness, you either go in for a touchup, or the polish comes off at home. There is absolutely no in between. Coincidentally, I met a woman my age a few years ago, and we both shared how our mothers instilled in us from the very beginning that you are absolutely not be caught dead walking around with chipped nails, lest you besmirch the family honor.
As a bit of a backstory, I swore that I'd absolutely never get acrylic nails after a good friend from high school had her acryliced thumbnail ripped off in her locker, right before graduation. Dozens of manicures throughout my adult life, and I'd always sworn them off, fearful. I stuck proudly to my gel manicures, with no desire to wander out into the wild, wild west of manicures. Young me, remembering my classmate wearing a massive bandage on the injured appendage, the rest of her nails blue and gold, our school colors, never desiring to delve into the possibility of such a horrific incident.
But as I watched the temporary manicurist slather a gorgeous pink shade on my nails, complimented by hints of glitter ombre, it felt amazing. Like I'd made it. While younger, I always observed the hands of women, fascinated by how neatly manicured their acrylics were. These were women who clearly valued their appearance, in addition to regular care. Theses were women that obviously had the money and time to do the little things for themselves that made them feel good.
I told someone a while ago how I'm 42 now, and I've literally never seen my mother's nailbed. My mother was a fierce devotee to her regular red polished manicures since I could remember. As I began to dive into adulthood in my late 30's, I began to gravitate toward things that my mother happened to love, including her Coach bags. My mother was a bigger fan of the plain black bags, and she wore the same bag regularly, until her bag fell apart and was promptly replaced. I, on the other hand, am a fan of Coach's more colorful offerings, and I switch all 5 of my bags out regularly. I still occasionally browse Coach's selection in store and online, my eyes peeled to any offerings that were colorful and bold.
Speaking of my mother, my biomother and I have reconnected lately. It feels kind of strange though. We first reconnected last year, when the family, knowing that Ali was sick, opted to pull together for what could possibly be our last holiday together. I mean, we all knew it was a possibility, especially since he'd lost so much weight. But still... who knew on Thanksgiving that he'd be gone by Valentine's Day?
Anyway, my mother and I have connected again. I see that the house prices are dropping significantly, and I'm still not making major bucks, but I'm weighing the possibility of buying one, if the right circumstance presents itself. I ended up calling my mother and asking her thoughts on the housing market. We ended up having nearly an hour-long conversation about things like motherhood, my father (she told me why she'd finally divorced him), and of course, the housing market. My mother said that based on some things going on around me, including my plan to move back to the west coast, buying a house doesn't seem worth the headaches, especially if I end up having to rent it out to strangers in the end. It was nice. I almost don't recognize her, but I can say that I genuinely like the person that she is at this point, and I hope that she can say the same about me.
And it's so reflective of what's going on in my actual life. I'm surrounded by nice things, in a warm and comfortable place, as I contemplate how far I've come, in addition to how far I still plan to go. Slowly knocking out my second book. Currently learning how to publish my own books. Plans for yet another epic birthday vacation in 6 months. I'm finally free to let go of what doesn't feel good and make decisions that I know are best for me. I'm learning. But I think that this is the best version of me yet.
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