megfowler.com

Before I say another word, thank you for the sunshine.

It’s very, very pretty, and a lovely thing to wake up to. Or see about an hour after I woke up. Whatever.

Also? Thank you for coffee. I know you didn’t make it for me, but I assume you’re fine with it, and I’m REALLY fine with it, so can I get an amen?

Thank you.

All that aside, however, what is the deal with you taking on my manicure?

I don’t normally manicure, Vancouver.

I have odd little potato chip/ski jump/upended contact lens fingernails, so it’s usually a better idea NOT to draw attention to them. When people DO notice them, they poke oddly at them — without fail — and say, “What happened to your fingernails?”

Genetics, my friends. Specifically? My maternal grandfather. Who also passed down an odd yen for making bad debate points and taking inappropriate amounts of vitamins. None of which seems to cure our shared weird nails.

Or maybe they were squished in the womb or something, but I doubt I spent nine months trying to pry my mother’s uterus open, thus permanently deforming my nails.

That’s kind of an unpleasant mental picture, I know. But that’s what you get for TRYING TO SMUDGE ME.

Anyhow.

I put on nailpolish in a dark garnet-y shade on Saturday, since I was bored waiting for my friend to arrive and meet me for dinner. The bottle was there, and I did it. It’s really more of a toe shade — unless you’re some crazed fashionista — but it also seemed like it might be fun to try.

I know. Painting your nails as experimental fun. I’m clearly a ball of excitement and mirth, no? This is why you need me in your city, Vancouver.

So I did it. And it dried. And lo, it looked okay. It actually made my nails look less potato-chippy. I’m still not a huge fan of the dark mani, but eh. My nails are short and un-claw-like, so I don’t look like Mistress X of the Dungeon.

(Hmmm. Halloween idea?)

Of course, I’d chipped the hell out of it by Sunday. Which either speaks to lack of topcoat or lack of skills or the fact that I am constantly putting my hands in peril. I’m betting it’s a combination of all three.

But I wasn’t quite ready to let the glamour go. So, Vancouver, I took all the polish off and re-did it last night. It was even better this time around!

(Yes, this story is going to go somewhere soon.)

And then this morning, after noticing some textural oddities on my thumbnail, I gave myself another coat. On the way out the door. I’d taken my keys out of my bag, set my bus pass in a convenient, non-smudge access spot… I was ready to let things dry properly.

Then I got on the bus, folded my hands delicately in my lap, and zoned out while drinking intermittently from my travel mug, and — of course — letting my fierce nails dry.

Apparently, sweet city, you took issue with this plan.

Because the next man that got on the bus literally FELL INTO MY LAP.

ON MY HANDS.

He didn’t even apologize, choosing instead to swear at the driver. And somehow, miraculously, his sudden collision only resulted in a slight smudge on my pinky nail, which barely exists anyhow.

If all my fingernails were countries, my pinky nail would be Andorra.

After this mild trauma, I thought I was safe. My nails would be nearing the “hardened” stage soon, and then I wouldn’t have to flutter them out of the way of danger like small birds fleeing a cat.

But Vancouver? Apparently you had other plans for me.

Never have so many people swung their laptop bags and purses and umbrellas (IT’S NOT RAINING) and briefcases and kantanas at my hands EVER. I probably looked completely spastic trying not to get chipped.

Probably? There is no probably.

During the course of that ride, I swore off dark nailpolish. Nailpolish in general! Damn the nailpolish! Enough! No more high-maintenance living for me!

This decision was confirmed when the bus driver closed the door on my hand. What?

SERIOUSLY. I GET IT. WE ARE A CITY OF NATURAL BEAUTY. NO ONE LIKES AN UPPITY MANICURE AROUND HERE. AND NO, THE POLISH WAS NOT TESTED ON BABY SEALS OR BUNNIES.

Dammit.

I was about a block away from work when I was forced to weave through a construction site. This would normally be no big deal, but this construction site was fairly crawling with odd vehicles and machines that were doing things and stuff and being piloted by slightly enraged-looking men with steel jaws and hardhats and clear malicious intent.

(Vancouver. Come on. You’re supposed to save these men for our hockey teams.)

The final step of this gauntlet was created by the angriest of all the angry men in the world — NO, I’M NOT EXAGGERATING — who was perched on a mini-forklift laden with a bunch of cement blocks.

Maybe he was mad because his forklift was so tiny. I’m not sure. Some men struggle with a reduced capacity to fork.

Angry Man was parked across the sidewalk, almost to the point of colliding with a giant truck that was — I kid you not — suspended in mid-air by cables of some sort. Holy crap.

There was less than a foot between them.

But unless I wanted to step into traffic — and Vancouver, seriously, what’s with your drivers? Since when is road rage a lifestyle? — I was going to have to shimmy through this space.

I saw a man ahead of me do it. I assumed I’d be safe. The driver didn’t look like he was going anywhere anytime soon.

So I went for it, dropping my bag low to make myself as small as possible.

And right at the exact moment when I was pressed like an autumn leaf between the two vehicles, the driver moved.

Forward.

GAH.

I lunged to the side with a sort of saut de chat and nearly ended up flat on my ass.

But you know what I was worried about, Vancouver? Not my ribs, no.

Not my spleen.

I was worried about my damn fingernails, because my hand felt cement and I felt panic and JUMP FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY AND SAVE THE MANICURE.

I’m quite aware of how ridiculous this is.

I’m also quite aware of how ridiculous — yet dramatic and ferocious and chic — my hands look.

But sheesh, Vancouver. Can’t I just keep them for ONE DAY?

No?

Oh, now we’re playing hardball.

Next bunny I see? He’s TOTALLY GETTING A MANICURE.

Love,

Meg