#100BM Day 11
I am absolutely hopeless at doing my nails. As soon as I put any kind of colour on them, I suddenly remember that I have to unload the dishwasher, get dressed, put on mittens, move a pile of jagged rocks, etc. It doesn’t matter if they are professionally done; the last paid-for manicure I had was before a wedding and I got a massive chip in the car on the way to the venue 20 minutes later. I wasn’t even driving. Or doing anything. The chip just broke free, falling into the nylon floor mat, as if to say ‘this bit of needless, flawless decoration is NOT for you!’
Despite this, I started putting polish on my fingernails regularly, after a decades-long hiatus, some time late last year. Why? No idea. It seemed a thing to do. Maybe I wanted to relive my glory days, ca. 1993, of having a babysitting client question my ability to watch his children because my fingernails were metallic navy blue. Maybe I was compensating for the fact that I needed to fancy my glamorous showbiz life up by by 1/100th of a percent.
But my nails are always banged up and trashy and, it turns out, after years of benign neglect, have rebelled fiercely by peeling and chipping. I had never had this issue before. Of course, ever practical, my solution is to cover up the problem with more polish, which, far from having the desired effect (like putting electrical tape over a ‘Check Engine’ light), makes it look like I deal lye and sandpaper for a living, but don’t believe in gloves.
My grandma always told me to take care of my neck and hands, because they will betray one’s age. My ‘dainty’ hands. My wrists and hands were the only parts of the Behemoth Granddaughter that were remotely acceptable. I preferred to climb trees (but not very high) or play catch with Grandpa than worry about liver spots and whether Ponds’s formula had changed.
But I noticed yesterday that my neck looks…different. Like it’s going to be the first thing to ‘go’ as I age. A wrinkly neck doesn’t concern me particularly, it was more of a ‘huh, I thought my arse would fall to my feet first’ moment. An old neck. I wonder when I’ll get a good, proper waddle.
I’m not especially vain by any stretch. I only just recently started a ‘regime’ of moisturizing (with an actual moisturizer made for faces, rather than a cheap pot of cocoa butter) on a daily basis after I started noticing flakes of skin in my peripheral vision many days. I didn’t particularly want my face to fall off in chunks before, but I was lazy, as I am with most things, and face care was pretty low priority
But, soon, I will look the same age as my 71-year-old aunt, not because I will appear eligible for CPP, but because she does not; she could pass for someone 20 years younger. My mother was the tomboy sister, so she didn’t get the lessons in skincare that my aunt had to be lectured through. Or maybe she did, but, like me, she was rebelliously not listening either.
Yesterday, I saw that my feet were black like hers were in summer (bare feet erryday) and nearly as tough and callousy, meaning cleaning off the garden filth was quite a chore. That’s something I really should address, if only so that I don’t fill my bed with earth most evenings and have to do laundry more often.
The other day, R. sent me this set of photos. I mean, who did/doesn’t have a crush on Diana Rigg, right? My first reaction was this:
[quote]This gallery is going to lead to me buying eyeliner again
and failing to apply it
It is the most truthful accidental poem I’ve ever written.
Could I look better than I do? Could actual care, some colour, more regular de-monobrowing, and camouflaging my Beetlejuice eye circles make my life somehow better? Maybe. But my time is better spent elsewhere. Like trying, and failing, to come with a thesis statement, pondering a third cup of coffee, and smearing my still-drying blue nailpolish by typing 700+ words approximately starting 30 seconds after its application.