The other day, a small, grating voice called me a “milk bag with goat feet.”
“Enough looking gross,” she chided. This was my inner artist. She was asking—impolitely—for a date. I took her to the nail place by the train station.
In her defense, but also in mine, there was a four-month period when I couldn’t see my feet and could therefore plead ignorance on their condition. When the baby came and my toes revealed themselves again, I noted how hideous they’d become, but TBH, I don’t have time for grooming. Anyway, it’s sock-and-boot weather. Who needs a pedicure?
The trouble is, when I read Julia Cameron, so does my inner artist. This one started getting ideas.
What do I mean “this one?” Well, my inner artist is basically the shape-shifting genie from 1992’s Aladdin. “Can your artist do this? Can your artist do that? Can your artist pull this, out their little haaaaat?”
On our way to the nail place, I noticed this artist was edgy: the kind of girl who paints her nails to keep from biting them until they bleed. She smokes cigarettes down to the last pinch. Eventually, she introduced herself as Jordi. Then she tried to flip off some J-walkers leaving church. I rolled up the window to stop her.
When we got to the salon, Jordi went for a color I’d never choose. It brought to mind spending the night in sub-zero temperatures and getting frostbite and rotting. It was the color of gangrene. “Fine, Jordi.” I thought smiling sheepishly as the manicurist shook the grey-mauve bottle. “This is your time.”
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