I’m not one to be trendy, or even fashionable.
I realize this doesn’t come as much of a shock. I don’t imagine I exactly convey an it-girl with-it vibe.
It’s not that I don’t want to be snappy and sassy and on top of things, it’s just not something that comes easily to me. I very much feel all Devil Wears Prada heroine, in a way. You know at the beginning where Andi’s all unconcerned and kind of frumpy? That’s totally me, except at the end she gets made over and gets what she wants while she has perfect hair and designer jeans. That’s not me.
And I’m okay with that.
Except sometimes I’m not. Sometimes I really wish I could wear ruffles and curl my hair and lotion and coif.
I can’t. I’d very much like to put on a belt and a dress and not be concerned that I look like a basset hound in a tutu, but something – I guess it’s just left over high school insecurity? – keeps the squirminess at the forefront.
The thing is, I’m thirty one years old. I realize that’s not old, but…I really feel it’s too old to be still seeking out my style. Or to even care about my “style” in the first place.
I few months ago I started painting my nails. It was the first time in my life I’d been able to paint them and not feel like they looked awkward and inappropriate, and as stupid as it sounds, it made me feel good. Typing with lacquer tipped fingers felt a little more…polished, pardon the pun.
But I didn’t really care for the colors. I tried them all, since lucky for me I have a seven year old girl.
Bright orange. Blech.
Purple, which I was sure I’d like and didn’t.
Deep, maroony red. It was called “Rock Star” or something strange.
Green. It looked a little like my fingers were rotting.
Pink. With all my girlish aspirations, it still didn’t surprise me that it looked ridiculous.
Then for some reason I picked up a bottle of black. Lingerie, or something equally lame.
I had no intention of growing gothic talons or anything, but I’d seen dark manicures. Something about it appealed.
As with everything, I did some quick Googling.
I found this, and remarkably I understood every word. I knew those feelings, those lines of thought.
So I did it. I slathered my nails with the glossy tar, and it was…amazing. I didn’t feel like a rock star but I felt – different. A little edgy. Like just by having the testicles to have black nails I became a little bit of a badass.
I realize this sounds ridiculous. I know they’re just fingernails. I know that to even feel like this about what color they are is petty and asinine.
But it’s a happiness I’ve found.
And it doesn’t hurt anyone, though Josh acts pained every time.
So black they are. And I’ll pretend they make me tough and cutting edge, deep and meaningful, even as I struggle with lace and frills, bangs and belted waistlines.