Now that I've spent a couple of days hocking my wares all over my blog, I thought I would take a moment to talk about fingernails.
When I was little I hated having my fingernails cut. I remember my mom chasing me down with a pair of clippers and her exasperation when I would scream and cry as if in pain. I would let my nails grow as long as possible, hoping she wouldn't notice them - but as is typical of moms, she always did.
Looking back it seems odd, but at the time I absolutely hated the feeling of that flesh right under the nail touching anything. Not the nail bed, that's giving me the willies just thinking about it, but that part of your finger tip that doesn't touch much of anything when there is a great big long nail on top of it. And I hated the feeling of my nail getting squished and sort of flattened out during the nail cutting process.
Now things are quite different. Now I hate a totally different sort of weird feeling. This time it's the feeling of having any length to my fingernails at all. You know that white crescent at the end? The lunule, it's called. My nails never have that for very long. I cut it off as soon as it starts to make an appearance.
The reason being is that I hate the feeling of having soft nails - like after a shower or doing the dishes - because I'm paranoid that I'm going to touch something and the nail is going to bend right back. Just even writing about it is giving me the willies.
So from hating to cut them to obsessively controlling their growth, fingernails have been the lifelong bane of my existence. And as I'm typing this, I'm noticing a little half circle of white developing there on the end of my fingers. I gotta go.