Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Yesterday, during that sweet silence right after both girls go down for their nap, he casually looked at me and said something to the tune of, "I was wondering if you wanted to get your nails done today." As if this was a normal thing to say. As if the last time that I "got my nails done" wasn't over two years ago-- when I was hopelessly pregnant with our older daughter, and I hobbled down to the nearest nail place in the only flip flops that would accommodate my swollen feet. To paint my toenails in some sort of defiant gesture to the fact that I could no longer even see my toes.
I am not one of those women who gets her nails done. It's not something I even think of these days. What? With washing dishes and wiping noses and sweeping floors. Painted nails seem like some sort of luxurious relic of a bygone era of my life... or maybe some future era, sipping tea with old friends with our frail hands covered in tissue-paper skin. But today? In the thick of parenthood?
I went. And despite what I initially thought, I actually loved it. The new nail place up the street is calm and quiet, has soothing piano music-- not the noisy, noxious salon I had imagined. I took my knitting and relished the peace. And all of today I have been doing double takes at my hands and feet-- which, unexpectedly, inappropriately, are a shiny pale pink. What a sweet husband I have.