Painting Toenails

When I was sixteen, a woman told me to do my nails on a Sunday to relax, pamper myself. I was a bit horrified at this. It was just so trite, so against being a feminist. But a part of me has come to realize it is the little things that keep me from coming undone.

Like trimming my nails, painting my toenails, having my eyebrows tweezed, shaving my legs—these are the maintenance details that keep the car running. It’s ridiculous really. Because it is not like eating, sleeping, exercising. No, these things are the details. The waxing of the car—and I never wax my car. I’m lucky if I wash my car. But I’ve noticed I feel better when my car is washed.

Just like I know I’d feel better if my apartment were clean. But on my day off, I’d so much rather lie in bed and watch a documentary than dust or wash around the edge of my sink. Even though I know when I do, I feel refreshed. I don’t know how people lived before running water and electricity. I would have never made it on the plantation.

I always picture myself as the one that runs into the electrical barbed wire at the concentration camps. But maybe we never know what we are made of until we are tested. I hope I am never tested like that. Which is why I am grateful that I can paint my toenails on a Sunday while watching Desperate Housewives.