Nailing It

 I wasn't the sister with the long fingers and perfect nails. She had the long legs, arms and slimness. I got the other side of the family, the one with the chunky body no matter what, and the short fingers with nails that defied growing to any length. The upside was, that though she had the romantic long, slender digits, I played classical piano. Not that visiting relatives wanted to listen to my efforts. After a polite suffering, they preferred Sister's key chording singalongs, while I, the Beethoven fan, sulked in the background. But that's sibling rivalry for  you. Back to nails. These days of "keeping up appearances" ( one of my favourite Brit Box comedies) with false anything you can afford, I finally hied off to the local nail spa. The cost is up there in the clouds, but hey, a lifetime of stubby hands, I was at last going to play Bridge without trying to hide my fingers at the same time. I wanted those nail babies out there in plain sight while I sipped from stemware or held a hefty thirteen cards on Bridge night. I wanted to flaunt those nails in all of their glory even though it cost me each time, more than a nice dinner out. When I emerged from the salon the first session, after one full hour of things that hurt slightly, smelled ghastly but had very friendly people from exotic countries who didn't understand a word I said, but smiled constantly. I had Hollywood fingernails. I could barely drive home safely, for staring at these beautiful glossy fingertips. At my next Bridge game, I bid fearlessly and passed jokingly, hands aflutter, and lost courageously, and all due to my new nails. They were so strong that I could do all kinds of kitchen counter maneuvers previously unheard of. What defied me was picking up a dime from the floor. Well, who uses dimes any more anyway? Since Covid, I decided that the nail salon, though I missed my dear "lady", was out of bounds for awhile. My gorgeously red long nails were growing out, and beginning to look freakish. Masking up, I did go to the salon when things settled down a bit. I had to, because my fingers began looking alien. The up side of not going to have my nails done, was that I saved the pile of money I had to spend on their renewal every three weeks.  But when Covid returned with a vengeance, I let the fake nails grow out and bought press-on nails. Wow, I thought, this is the way to go! For a fraction of the price of professional nails, I had these fancy ones. I followed all the directions and stuck them on and they looked terrific. The first day, three of them dropped off and others soon followed as time and regluing occurred. Some of the the missing bits of acrylic are worthy of a poster because I lost them and don't know where they are. A salad, the chili, down the drain, in the washer? Yesterday, I found a thumb nail at three in the morning in my bed. I am back to my short, short nails but I paint them a stunning sparkling pearly shade. I don't glow, I shine. If nothing else, now with them, I can see in the dark.