86. This number is slang for dead or end. An example: "86 that file." The other day, this number took on a whole new meaning when I sat on the floor of my bedroom with the gardening sack that holds my nail polish. I poured out the contents and proceeded to count the bottles. Inside were exactly 86 bottles of varying colors, hues and sparkles. To some--mostly boys--86 may seem excessive but to me, there aren't enough choices or colors in that bag (maybe that's why later on in the week a few more selections were added.)
I guess for some people, nail polish is just something to put on nails. For me, there are certain bottles where I can look at them and remember an event or a story. I remember where I first wore it or a special person who admired it. There's even a certain bottle that will later on warrant it's own blog but that's for another occasion. For me, my 86 plus bottles are forms of expression and rememberances. Sometimes they are also ways to be cheeky.
In my collection are three interesting colors that were purchased at a moment that was a turning point in my life. My divorce had been finalized for more than a year and I was just beginning to date again. In fact, I was about to go on my first date with a very interesting date with a gentleman who worked for Homeland Security in Washington DC. He seemed intelligent and was a father of a son around the same age as mine. Things seemed right and I went into overplanning mode, picking out the perfect outfit and planning my make up.
The boy in question happened to text me as I was buying nail polish for this said date and I told him what I was up to. Not a moment later I got an interesting request. It read something like this: "Could you please wear only a light light pink and could you send me a pic of what you buy before you get it?" Hmmm. Interesting. Nonetheless, I did as requested, picking out something almost opaque and then one with a bit of sparkles. I went home and painted three different combinations of color and sent him the picture. Again, immediate response. "Paint them like this." He picked out his choice.
On the night of the date, I painted them as he liked and even did the toe nails to match. I met the boy. We ate dinner. We talked and laughed and realized how darn particular this guy was. He took time to rearrange his silverware about a hundred times. He talked about how his hands were bleach burnt from cleaning his house and how he was transformed by his years in the Marines. Still, I had a good time.
Later that night, he asked about a second date....and then later he got home and sent me a message that said that it wouldn't work. In retrospect, I think he was absolutely right. We would have driven each other crazy. And, I couldn't have worn just pale pink nails forever.
The very next day, I turned to my very favorite therapy to get over my confusion: nail polish. This time, instead of buying a demure pink, I purchased a purple-gray that looked like a healing bruise. It was called Wet Cement. I put it on my nails and wore it with pride.
At school the next morning, a student said, "I love your nails. What's the name of the polish?" My answer? "Boys are stupid."
Oh the stories in my bottles. There are so many more--a few more first dates, a few last moments. One thing's for sure, I'm rarely a pale pink girl. I'm living my life in painted color.
No comments:
Post a Comment