No, this post is not about O.P.I. nail colors, although I must admit, they have a brilliant marketing team. I mean, how can you not smile when you turn over that small bottle and read, "Do You Lilac It?" or "I Pink I Love You"? Call me an English teacher, but I think these little play on words are just so darn clever.
Anyhow, I only bring this up, because for the past eight months, I have sported a shade of pink, purple, or red on my fingertips. You see, I'm eternally and regretfully a nail bitter. I have been ever since I can remember. In fact, there are several disturbing photos of me as a young child with an entire foot in my mouth, biting. Why my mother decided to capture those moments on film and not chastise me for my unhygienic behavior, I'll never know. Fortunately, my toe biting days have long gone, and as of recent, I'm proudly a recovering fingernail biter. I have been "sober" since my life turned upside-down this past April. Ever since then, I have donned nicely manicured nails. Here's why.
First, when I look down, I see a colorful reminder that once a nail biter, always a nail biter. For the first time in my life, my hands don't look like that of an 11 year old boy, and I'd really like to keep it that way. I feel like it gives me just a little more street cred when talking with parents.
Secondly, I have probably avoided many more colds this season because my hands, which are immersed daily in middle school germs, have not been in my mouth. Gross, but true.
But even more importantly, I keep my nails painted to remind myself that I an eight-months strong. Eight months of not biting. Eight months of being single. Eight months of being happy.
For most of my adult life, I was someone's "girlfriend." It was like a bad habit I couldn't overcome. I was that girl who, despite several conversations with friends about the doubt and red flags I saw in my relationships, stayed. I just couldn't kick the habit of needing someone. The fear of being alone trumped the fear of being unhappy and unfulfilled by a wrong relationship.
Not surprisingly, April wasn't my choice. He ended it, and to my dismay, it turned my entire world upside-down. I felt panicked, confused, hurt, just utterly broken. I felt like my whole world was spinning rapidly out of control, and there was no pleading or rationalizing that could fix it. Painting my nails was my tangible way of reclaiming control of my life. I couldn't fix a broken relationship, or even my broken heart for that matter, but I could fix my nasty nail biting habit. And I did.
So as I sit here, looking at the Christmas red on my fingertips, I smile. I haven't faltered. I haven't given in to bite that one nail. Don't get me wrong, the temptation has been there, and I admit, the thought has crossed my mind once or twice, but the nail polish reminds me of how far I've come. I'm not giving in now. I won't bite. And, because writers write with metaphors in mind, I haven't given in to being someone's girlfriend either. Looks like two bad habits have been kicked. Win.
