I've confessed before about my lifelong obsession with the color black. And how I've reformed myself. Now I will allow myself to wear turquoise, brown, yellow, purple, green. See, I'm happy now. But I still maintain my arsenal of black. Just cuz. You know, just like a crack fiend likes to hold onto his pipe for old times sake. To remember the good times.
Well, I fell off the wagon.
The black wagon, that is. I bought this almost-black burgundy nail polish for my
My only beef...my husband hates it. He absolutely despises black (or almost black) nail polish. Which is fine, I guess. He has the right to his opinion. I had my toes painted this color for my brother's graduation last Friday. He gave me the goo goo eyes, told me several times how nice I looked, how he liked my dress, how my butt jiggled to it's own beat (and he felt like dancing to it), etc. and could I please remove the toenail polish as soon as I got home?
Sigh. I knew this was going to happen. I kinda knew it would displease him. But I did it anyway. Not so much in the spirit of defiance...more like, hey these are my feet and my toes and if I want to let my nails grow so long that they curl under, that is my choice. That may seem laughable to some. Wow, scared of you Pearmama. Painting your toenails black. That'll show him. You go.
Just call me a rebel with a cause.
You might say that black toenail polish brought us together. While we were still friends, in that hazy friends-but-considering-more bermuda triangle, we went to my cousin Diana's college graduation party. The open bar gave me some liquid courage. Hmmmmm...he sure is looking pretty good--but no, we're just friends!
That's when I noticed this girl with a vicious body (translation: huge rack, tiny waist, huge butt) calling him out to the dance floor. Now, we were still "friends", mind you, and I had no right to insist he only dance with me even though he came with me. But I couldn't figure out why it bugged the crap out of me that he was dancing with a girl with a butt as big as mine. I was mad! I have a foggy memory of kicking the wall in the ladies restroom...the bruised toenail on my big toe (which eventually fell off a few months later) I discovered the next morning validated my suspicion.
At the end of the night, several of us ended up in a hotel room to continue the party where they set up a keg in the bathroom. That girl with the fat ass was there, sitting on the bed, talking to Michael. Since she was my cousin's friend, I knew I couldn't snatch her up by her hair. Plus, I was way too classy for all that. Bruised big toe and all. I noticed he didn't pay too much attention to her...and it made me happy.
That night on the way home, as he put his arm around me in the backseat, he whispered in my ear, "That girl gave me her number but I threw it away. She wasn't my type of girl. She had on black toenail polish. Ugh. And it was chipped. Her feet looked rotten."
We got together two days after that nigiht and twelve and a half years later, we're still holding it down.
But from that day forward, I never used black nail polish again. Until recently. I will blame my sister. She wears it. And Jen is my arbiter of style. She is my fashion gauge, letting me know what looks cute...what looks tacky...what is acceptable...what makes me look like an old, fat lady. So I hold her fully responsible. Heh.
On Sunday while were were barbequeing for father's day, I spotted Michael looking at Jen's toes in disgust, his lip in a snarl. "If I only had a hammer...I would bust your black toes and make them red."
Yes, he is quite the poet.
When we got home, I scrubbed the dark nailpolish off before Edgar Allan PoPo could come after me with a hammer and do my black toenails in. It took some elbow grease. But now it's all gone. Then I painted them a pale putty pink. Whew.
Now we're back in business.