I have really ugly feet. From teenage years en pointe (and Dad's genes). I always paint my toenails red. They told me to blog.Two of my bestest, childhood friends tied the knot on New Year's 2010. Even this gal's cynical heart grew two sizes, Grinch-style, listening to the nuptials and watching them shuffle slowly around the Lions Club dancefloor. They are romantic fable, beshert, meant to be.
He's an engineer, Turtle. She's a library scientist, Phoenix. Years ago, during what will someday be nonchalantly referred to as 'the dark time', Phoenix gave me the best gift I have ever received (step aside, birth mother... "life" now ranks #2). This present - unsolicited, apt, simple. OPI's ruby red nailpolish entitled "I'm Not Really A Waitress".
I continued to slog away at bars and restaurants for the remainder of my seven years of University education, addicted to both the easy-$$$ and the nightly J Lohr Cab Sav. Although the food service industry is home to raucous staff parties, softball tourneys, and deep delicious discounts it wasn't what I wanted to DO with my life. I'm sure there's some irony to be found in my equally lukewarm feelings re: academic pursuits said waitressing funded. (To summate, I'm not really a waitress. Ditto for both my degrees - scientist and lawyer). Also, the big three-O is a grade school bully down a narrow hallway... lurking, taunting, waiting to strike.
Lately my frustration seemed to be swelling, no doubt fueled by masochistic consumption of inspirational TedTalks and tired self-helpisms ("do what you love and you'll never work again!" Oh, well OK then. Wonder which flavor of cat food I'd prefer?) The trailer for Eat Pray Love came on yesterday, and I felt like reaching through the screen and strangling Julia Roberts skinny, self-actualized neck.
But then,
I looked down at my toenails...
constant and crimson.
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