I have pretty weak nails. They’re always peeling off layer by layer to reveal more and more flexible layers. They fold under pressure. They attract dirt. What’s supposed to be pink is more beige and the white is more of an opaque cloudy sort of color. Mama has perfect nails. Without even trying. All day long. Type-type-typing away with the perfect nails making that perfect nail click.
Last night, while typing a message to amazing painter Anton Pavlenko, I realized that I was clicking, too. I looked down at my nails and one was ready to peel. Out of habit, I did and behold–there was a stronger nail underneath.
Are life’s lessons sneaking up on me? Is this a metaphor? Was that a test?
I don’t know, but I think I’m winning.