Fashion

Philosophy of Nail Polish

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So for a friend’s birthday a few weeks ago (hi friend! She’s a regular reader of this blog) we went to a spa, and I got a manicure. I haven’t had a manicure in I don’t know how long, given that the only thing I think about my nails is whether they’re starting to get to that annoying length where they get to the keys on the keyboard before my fingers.

I loved the painted nails. They were an opaque, pale green.

When I’d get them done before, I’d always stick to the light shades of pink, nothing too noticeable, something professional. And then it struck me that I didn’t have to do that anymore. I could pick any color and run.

After the polish chipped away, as it always does (I’m not really up for the no-chip manicure, given the removal process) I missed the color. So I went to one of my favorite spots on the planet, my neighborhood Walgreens, and picked some out. A different shade of green; a bright, light shade of blue. And I painted them myself.

I don’t think I have a future in nails.

But it showed me that I’ve been clinging to rules that no longer apply. And that’s it: when things change, so can you.

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Contemplating Shoes

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I don’t wear heels much anymore. It’s a rare occasion, and because I have somewhere to be, a place where heels are a part of the uniform.

Hmm. That sort-of makes it sound like I work somewhere like Hooters. I don’t, though. Implied uniform, not overt.

Maybe the footwear change was compounded by all the snow and ice this year, with sidewalks so slick, it was safest to keep feet as flat as possible to lessen the chances of the world sliding out from underneath. Maybe it’s because I reached the point where the discomfort-to-cuteness ratio slipped into the “What’s that pain for again?” range.

But writing at home, I only wear socks, or, when the wind blows in a certain direction and comes in through the crevices, slippers. I’m strictly no shoes in the house.

And do I need to balance my weight on the tiny tip of a heel, my foot as extended as Barbie’s, when I walk up to the store to get groceries?

Uh, no.

Perhaps I’m not as glamorous as I used to be. Perhaps I never really was, I was only fitting myself into the pre-cast mold, into the expected shape that takes a little trimming of your factory-issued parts.

I guess I’d rather spend my time thinking up entirely new worlds than thinking about how much my feet hurt and wondering how long it will be until I can be comfortable again.

 

An Ode to Sweatpants

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Go on. Admit it. You love them too.

It’s that soft coziness as you slip them on, nothing creasing against your skin. The elastic’s lack of judgment, the ability to sit in any contorted position without your jeans demanding to know what you think you’re doing.

They whisper of slow times with their best friend, the couch, of Netflix show marathons, of time that is entirely your own. Time when no one is watching.

And then there is the fleece. Everything should be fleece-lined.

But like all good things, sweatpants have their place. That’s what makes them special.