Watching the Paint Dry

You always hear this term when something is quite painful to bear, or when the need for patience is at an all time high. I, on the other hand, put a bit of a twist on it and call it my touch of meditation, or my therapy billed at about 12 dollars an hour, if you count the base, nail and top coats. The activity? Painting my nails…

Now, I’m the type of girl who would cut off her right arm for a spa day at any given moment (even though this would leave one less hand to paint I suppose, but I digress). But there is something therapeutic about Sunday evenings when the baby is tucked safely away in dreamland, Daddy is enjoying his moments of peace (ironically with a sports show blaring and a book in hand), and I’m gathering my nail files, the latest color I’m obsessed with and settling in for a good 90 minutes. For those of you who know me well, asking me to pause for even 10 minutes is requesting a lot, and quite frankly is a position I’m generally uncomfortable in. But when it comes to nail lacquer, the rough smell of acetone and a set of colors coined as “Oh to Be 21 Again” or “Bubble Bath,” I’ll shift quickly to a red light status to enjoy a little self-manicure.

Now, the completed product is nothing compared to what Angie, Yung, Frank, etc. can achieve, but the joy of completing a project that will stick with you for a few days, make you feel like a woman again and provide a small sense of style is worth the while. Tonight, it’s “Los Cabos” and “Limo Scene,” leaving my usually bitten, mess of a nail bed hands looking a little more like they should be allowed to see the light of day.

And if they get little wrinkle lines from the sheets tonight? Well, then that’s another 90 minutes I gain to delight in shaping, brushing and manicuring the little piggies all over again.

What’s your form of meditation?