yesterday I did something I haven't done voluntarily in over a decade. While VL napped, I went to the drugstore, got supplies, locked myself in the bathroom, and enacted the profession of my people--I painted my nails. And for the first time in my life, I like it. It's not the color per se (I wanted a dove gray but settled for gunmetal. and the violet on my toes is almost black, not plum) nor the nail polish (the smell still nauseates me) nor is it perfect having instantly ruined them trying to button up a jumper & onesie on a wiggly toddler. I still prefer my nails short and plain. And yet, I like them.
It is the ritual I spose, the ritual of carving out a space for myself that is completely selfish and indulges my vanity all for $7. And every time I see my busy hands doing busy things, my 'tips gladly remind me that I'm still me.
It is not quite a room of one's own, but it is enough. for now.
