1 March 2016.  Journal.

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.

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