If one was to glance at the state of my hands recently–and that one was a neatly buttoned up grandmother parked squarely on the conservative side of thinking–well, they might just be concerned at what they see.
Cause lately I’ve taken to painting my nails a creamy charcoal color.
“You painted your nails black?” my boyfriend said.
“They’re charcoal,” I corrected him.
“They’re cute,” he concluded.
But see? A lot of people would think they’re black, I suppose. And, coupled with the small tattoo on the inside of my left wrist, I’m figuring that the buttoned up conservative grandmotherly types (who do help our world go round that much nicer) could think that I might be going through something.
Oh, but, aren’t we all?
And aren’t we always?
I mean, even if it feels like nothing, if you’re still breathing, then it’s something.
We are each a pond of sorts; anything that touches us causes a ripple effect, and that is something. There are degrees of something, sure. There are gentle rainfalls and there are monsoons. There are days that feel like one more ninety-nine cent lottery ticket culled for good measure, though you know nothing will change and rent will
still come like a question begging for an answer that you don’t have. And there are days when you get the job or you meet him or you learn the truth or you walk out the last time. And those feel memorable, but I can tell you this: the memorable days are just as important as the lottery days because the memorable days are a direct result of the lottery days.
Cause and effect, everything is connected, yada yada yada.
Be encouraged: it all matters and if you forgot that, then this is your reminder.
But, believe me, what I’m going through has absolutely nothing to do with my nails! I just like the color. Dark nails are in, you know.
I’d show you a picture, but I really don’t have pretty hands. The Latshaws have notoriously wrinkly hands from birth. Not sure why, exactly, but perhaps there is an elephant sitting atop some distant and very high branch of the family tree. Judging from the wrinkles in my hands and feet, you might think so, anyway. Needless to say, every time I photograph my hands and my pretty-painted-nails, I always delete the picture and grieve the hand modeling career that will never be.
You might all be wondering what my point is, and to that I say: good luck finding it. It’s like a very bad game of jeopardy where, instead of being given the answer and told to decipher the question, here’s a whole bunch of words and some random knowledge about the color of my nails and GO! FIND A THESIS!
I would, really, but I’ve been up since 3:30 this morning and I’m just too darn tired.
But maybe it’s this: just because my nails look black (but are charcoal!), doesn’t mean I’m going through something.
No, I’m going through something because I’m alive. Still, alive, thank God.
Oh! And that something isn’t necessarily bad, either. I’d like to tack that onto the thesis, too, if I may.