I don't mean to brag, but at the present time, I am sporting one big ol' honkin' fingernail.
Not for Val are French manicures. Nor the soaking of her digits in Palmolive at the behest of Madge. No fancy geometric patterns, no bedazzling, no color-coordination with clothing. No cuticle scissors or sticks, no metal files or emery boards. No polish. Oh, my nails are not raggedy. Not chewed to the quick. But they are nothing to brag about, unless you count that one big ol' honkin' fingernail. Not that I'm braggin'.
It doesn't signify anything special, my MegaNail. It was not planned. My nail-trimming routine is somewhat similar to my haircutting routine. Not the process of trusting my tresses to a true professional, of course. You should remember that does not happen. I have the Butcher of Seville, after all. But in those in-between times when I feel a need to trim, I just do it. Sometimes, even in the light, and with a mirror. It's somewhat the same for my fingernails. Only I don't have a Butcher of the Nails. I am always carving away at them as the need arises. Which means that sometimes, all ten are not on the same page.
Perhaps one fingernail has been injured in a threading accident. Or sliced inadvertently in a sink full of dishes. Or bent backwards in a rush to open the refrigerator for a feeding frenzy. Which would necessitate immediate trimming. So when the other nine are ready, this one is not. Maybe I want to let it grow so it can once again become part of the regular trimming routine. Maybe I revel in the existence of one good scratcher. But I draw the line at referring to him as Ol' Scratch.
All people are not so enamored of my enormous nail as I. Just a few minutes ago, Genius commanded, "Eew! Do something about that nail!" Funny how he waited until after I had folded his mayoral-campaign dress shirt suitable for packing for his upcoming eight-day trip to Missouri Boys' State.
Hopefully, nobody notices MegaNail when I am out in public. I don't want to be mistaken for a cocaine snorter. Imagine my surprise when those savvy city co-workers of mine at the South St. Louis unemployment office explained the long pinky-nail phenomenon. Who knew it was for scooping coke? Not me. Surely they weren't just snipe-hunting with me. I bought their explanation for claimants in leather jackets on hot days, too. That they were packing. Not for a trip. And not in the manner of oversize reproductive equipment. Nope. Those dudes had a gun in the armpit. That's why they preferred to sweat rather than remove the jacket.
MegaNail is never going to be featured in the Guinness Book of World Records. I'm not planning for him to spiral like a pig's tail until I have to hang him out the passenger window while driving. He's fast approaching the limit of his usefulness. Once he starts affecting my keyboard performance, he's gone.
It's hard to say goodbye.