Things I do.

I’d been looking forward to my mani/pedi all week. The toes needed some love, and I decided to go the gel route on my hands. I have no idea why.

The last time I had gels, they were done by someone who — instead of soaking them off — would Dremel them off. While the gel color was perfect (shameless plug for the Gelish “Sweet Dream” shade), the process was nothing short of horrifying. Having the color drilled off wasn’t pleasant. I stopped going after peeling them all off one time, resulting in my actual nails becoming paper-thin and prone to feeling like they were swimming in lava every time I took even a lukewarm shower. They eventually healed in time.

I revisited the gels today — a mere five hours ago, in fact — and just finished peeling them all off once again. While the shade of pink wasn’t exactly what I wanted, it was close enough. The main issue is that there was a clump of color that needed removing along one side of my thumb nail, and I went at it a bit too vigorously. As such, I ruined the nail entirely.

Then I saw another nail that needed its own clump removed, so I tried again. I ruined that one, too. One I can deal with. But two nails ruined = two too many. So I spent an hour peeling away, and finally got back to my natural nails. Nails which now weren’t any thicker than tissue paper. Familiar, no? Heaven forbid I go back to the salon tomorrow for a repair job, or wait two weeks and have them soaked off like a normal person.

I do some pretty dumb things on a fairly regular basis. If there’s fattening food in the house that I’m tired of looking at, I’ll get rid of it…by eating it.

I have a bad habit of buying Weight Watchers snack cakes for those rare instances when I have a sweet tooth, but when I finally enjoy one, it’s never just one. It’s, like, four. And four defeats the purpose of buying Weight Watchers snacks in the first place.

I buy travel-size shower gel when it’s on sale, and forget that I have a stash at home. When I bring it back to the casa and open the cabinet, I am reminded that I am a hoarder of miniature, pleasant-smelling things. I suppose it could be worse.

When I take a break from washing my car myself and get it washed somewhere, I usually do so without checking the forecast. Naturally, it often rains 2-4 days later. Wash wasted.

The notion of going to Starbucks for a refreshing iced beverage usually hits me right after I’ve brushed my teeth.

I have yet to realize that tweezing, while cathartic, is a poor activity to select when things are weighing heavily on my mind.

I’m allergic to cats that aren’t mine, yet whenever I pet a new one, I have an uncanny knack for touching my eyes or nose, thus setting my person into a fit of itchy-faced sneezing for the next hour.

I don’t doubt that I’ll get gels again, and that I’ll find a way to mess them up once more. I’m sure I’ll repeat my low-calorie snack feasting, thus making them worse than the fully-leaded-yet-smaller-portioned version. I’ll probably find a million and one more things to do that make me question my own intelligence, but at the very least I can be guaranteed that it’ll be more writing fodder down the road.

There are some things that we do that seemingly lack even an ounce of sanity, but they’re things that make us “us.” So long as those things aren’t illegal or detrimental to our growth, I think we’ll all be OK. The sometimes invisible, underlying force behind all of our quirks, our habits and our brainless moments means that we’re not perfect. And, really, who would want to be? What a boring world we’d live in. Tonight I am thankful for all of my imperfections and oddities.  Here’s to yours, too.

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