It takes a very brave woman, and a Manhattan-based woman as that, to admit that she is not responsible, clean, concerned about her image or fragile enough to maintain at least one manicure every week, or month, or summer, considering its September and my cuticles are dirty-look-in-department-store overgrown. I took my friends Caitlin's advice* and picked these up, thinking it would be my gateway to feminine adulthood, like a closet filled with sensible Kate Spade dresses! Or an urge to shower and blow dry my hair each morning! But, shockingly, it won't take four rounds of Jeopardy to guess how this one's going to end.
(Alright, disclosure: advice definitely meant "drank Old Grand-Dad whiskey while putting on her four leftover leopard-print nail strips and leaving them on for a week while they slowly wore off and made me look dirtier and less mature by the day.")
I've always hated the idea of Sally Hansen Nail Strips, mostly because it's the same as understanding all of the downs in a football game — the type of thing that everyone says is so simple and winds up being way more complicated than my brain can even begin to handle. So, unsurprisingly, ten minutes of applying stickers to my fingers in a convoluted attempt to be more adult-y slowly turned into a half-hour of listening to but not watching Arrested Development while covering my nails and skin in Pepto-Bismol colored decals that anyone who's obtained a degree from Education Connection could probably accomplish better than me.
Please note: strip-covered cuticle budges, perfect iPhone photography covering the entire top chipped portion of each nail, embarrassment at a former beauty intern's inability to master the CVS beauty aisle
Maybe finally becoming an adult consists of being able to recognize which areas of life you absolutely suck at (hygiene, femininity, "not eating after 9pm") and learning to focus on the ones you're good at (maintaining Gchat friendships, over-accessorizing, pushing a 9pm food cutoff back an hour until it's two desserts later and 1am the next morning). Or, maybe I just feel like a chump because wherever I go, everyone else is doing a better job of everything on my suck list than I am. Maybe there's a girl out there, wearing the perfect boyfriend jeans, writing in her leather-bound journal before she does her nightly sit-ups who's wondering how she can not be so perfect all the time, or what she can do to make her life a little more disaster-filled or exciting by way of humiliation.
But, then again, she's probably too busy blow-drying her hair for the next morning with her perfect, post-brunch manicured nails to be able to think that way.