Sparkly pink, short, square manicure

Lately I’ve been dreaming of people and experiences from my past that fill me with dread upon waking. Last night it was this guy I used to go to festivals and raves with. I don’t remember the context at all but I remember he was there, and I remember feeling the exact panic I felt when I hung out with him and his crew in my early 20s: like I was going nowhere fast.

This guy, let’s call him Dave… he was the ringleader of our group, which was composed of—and I’m not exaggerating—hundreds of east coast ravers. Dave was smart and opinionated. Politically active. Not super into drugs, though certainly dabbled. And just all around passionate about how music could connect people and drive social change. He made you believe that what you were doing was more than just partying.

If there was a show in your city and you needed a buddy, Dave would link you with six, and they would become your best friends by the end of the night. Parties, protests, vigils for friends lost to ODs (sad reality of that era), you name it, Dave orchestrated it. I don’t even know what he’s up to these days besides posting socialist memes on Facebook.

Sometimes I look back on that period and wonder if I had it all figured out, you know, how to live and just be without chasing every next milestone of adulthood. But I mostly remember the painful gut feelings of stagnation. Like I was living in this bubble of good vibes and big ideas that kept me from the real discomfort of challenging myself, of growing up. I’d look around me at 4 AM at all the pashminas and casual DMT and Alex Grey posters and Tipper playing through the TV and I’d be like hooooooly shit what am I doing with my life? Now I just dream about it from my big bed in the suburbs and wake up in a cold sweat, imagining myself on some springy futon in Baltimore, ears ringing and seeing stars.

Well, that was 7 AM! After shaking off the dream residue, I had SEX with my HUSBAND. Then we ate breakfast: I had a bowl of Nature’s Path Heritage Flakes with whole milk and sliced banana; Bianca had the other half of my banana + a waffle; Andrew had pb&j on waffles. I also made a version of Catherine’s mocha: drip coffee, gelatin powder, cocoa powder, maple syrup, and cream. Absolutely divine. Something about this combo takes a bit of the caffeine edge off for me, which is good. Feels like a cleaner high. Maybe it’s all in my head, but I’ll take it.

After breakfast I had an Italian “lesson.” I dropped down to bi-weekly since it’s just maintenance and friendship at this point. I am paying her to be my friend who keeps me bilingual. I will do this as long as I can afford to, and tbh, it’s not that expensive. I think I pay $15 a lesson? (in 20-hr packages) I HAVE BEEN AT THIS FOR SEVEN YEARS. SINCE I WAS BROKE AS HELL I HAVE PRIORITIZED LEARNING A LANGUAGE TO FLUENCY. YOU CAN DO THIS. I BELIEVE IN YOU. IF YOU HAVE ROOM IN YOUR BRAIN FOR TRACKING YOUR 10K STEPS A DAY OR HOW MANY PEOPLE FOLLOW YOU ON SOCIAL MEDIA OR THE VINTAGE BLUMARINE ON YOUR EBAY WATCH LIST YOU HAVE ROOM IN YOUR BRAIN FOR LANGUAGE. AND LIKE IT’S OK TO TRACK THAT OTHER STUFF BUT I WANT YOU TO BE PROUD OF YOURSELF IN THIS BEAUTIFUL WAY THAT HAS ENRICHED MY LIFE INDEFINITELY, IF THIS IS SOMETHING YOU ASPIRE TO AS WELL.

Around 11, I rush-ate a ham and cheese sandwich on sourdough with mayo, yellow mustard, and Kettle brand potato chips before heading to my first nail appointment in months. Yeah, I don’t know who I was kidding thinking I’d start taking care of my own nails. I kept a file and cuticle balm in my nightstand and every night, I would look down at my jagged nails and peeling cuticles and shrug, like I was helpless to the situation.

I love calling the condition of my nails, or my dark roots, or the zit I’m nursing after using Tree Hut body scrub on my face (🙂) a “situation.” I think the best (or at least the most fun) way to engage with beauty is to dramatize it. Treat it like a legal matter. Something to handle.

I had to handle my nails, this much is true. But I cannot do the handling. I am unreliable.

So I walked into the salon and the girls all grilled me about where I’ve been. It was cute. That’s my domain and the bitch is back!

I sat next to this older lady whose small talk with her tech was cracking me up. “Oh I just LOVE this bottle! Ob-SESSED.” “That third coat really makes the difference, how GORGEOUS.” “Excuse me, was that another Barbara? I’m the only Barbara here!” Just one of those people who has to fill the silence. Love those people. Enduring fixtures of the Beauty Salon. They annoy the hell out of me and then I realize I’m kind of a bitch and their need for connection or attention or whatever becomes endearing. We should talk to each other. We should express delight over little things, like the shape of a friggin gel polish bottle. We all sit in those chairs hunched over for 90 minutes; the least we can do is bond over a good shade of pink.

I told my tech that I really need to commit to keeping my nails short going forward and she nodded like mhmm ok. She’s heard this one before; then four appointments fly by without a cutdown and we’re back to claw city.

But I swear to God I mean it this time. So here I am with a sparkly pink, short, square dip manicure, trying to ignore how creepily childlike my hands look right now. I’m never one for an interesting manicure because I derive enough visual pleasure from merely having my nails done. The length, shape, and color come together to inform a persona, a story about my life at a particular moment.

Right now, I am awaiting some news, giddy and nervous and overwhelmed. I am in a fizzy, childlike state of anticipation. The nails match the vibe. Giddy-up!

This has been one of the best days of my life. Nothing happened, really. I had to work. I performed my motherly duties—some spontaneous, others rote. Walked the dog. It all felt easy and beautiful, though. Fluid presence. Grateful for everything. The simplicity of my life and the clarity of my vision. Good first day of spring energy.

I think I needed this snap back to active participation in my life because I’ve been engaging with the world, particularly with art, in a half-hearted way. I’ve been so busy and tired that what I manage to take in is absorbed in haste; I struggle to parse the true impact beyond baseline emotional reactions, like disgust, attraction, etc.