This evening, we met at the nail salon.
Backstory: My adoptive mother is a devoted self-pamperer. I am not. I remember being somewhat mortified when it was [strongly] suggested I have a manicure, early on the day of my wedding. A life-long nail-biter, the idea of literally handing over my hardworking inelegant fingers was humiliating. Thankfully, it was a good experience. Rare, but good.
That manicure lasted longer than the happily-ever-after portion of the union… (which was about three and a half days. Maybe four.)
They seated us side by side – close enough to chat, far enough not to be weird. “Weird” = embarrassingly close. My Status Symbol a country clubby pink to her deep blue finger choice and the wicked deepest red-black for her toes. A decade ago she would have chosen the pinkest bubblegum pink, and I, the brooding mysterious darkers.
We discussed spring break and Bermuda and whether one needs a passport. And her singing with a band this Friday night, and staying over sometime soon.
We did not talk about her coming back home.
Lacquered and dry, a strong hug, she zipped off to rehearsal. And I returned home to turn on the television too loud and plate a magazine recipe salad of spinach and radishes, and walk the dog and turn on too many lights and pretend.
The polish is a good reminder that it’s OK, and necessary, for us to take care of ourselves – whatever way feels like pampering you choose.
They tell me she will come back, some day. Tomorrow would be good…or when this manicure begins chipping – 10 days, two weeks, whatever. Sooner than later.
