The Meditative Practice of Painting Your Nails

1.

Pre-teen me was crazy about nail polish. I remember buying these mini-bottles from Wal-Mart, in the brightest colors possible, and painting each fingernail and toenail a different color, sitting on my bed in the basement, bathed in light coming through the window well. I would wait impatiently for the polish to dry, then use a toothpick to dab clunky five-petal flowers on top. It was not cute, grown-up me is certain, but pre-teen me loved it -- loved the process, loved the result.

2.

Professional pedicures have never been my thing. I'm just not one for pampering in general, I suppose. But last weekend, on an epic retreat with girlfriends, we made the impulsive decision to head to a nail place in town and get a little dose of pretty. The ladies at Tip & Toe Nails looked a wee bit shocked when the seven of us walked in -- four pedicures and three manicures, please. I was in the pedicure crowd. Having selected my color of choice (Tasmanian Devil Made Me Do It by OPI -- gotta love these names), I sat back and let the master work. She scrubbed, lotioned, clipped, massaged, and lacquered up my toes. Reclined there in my chair, I thought back to pre-teen Sara, how much uncomplicated joy she got out of painting her nails. What happened to that, I wondered? I still keep my toenails painted most of the time, but always in the most utilitarian sort of way -- I don't savor it the way I used to. My fingernails, well ... the most love they get is the occasional dig-out-the-accumulated-dirt-from-underneath routine. That habit, that practice, of selecting a polish, trying it out, layering it, playing with it -- that's gone from my adult life. And it's fine to grow out of something you used to like, if you genuinely lose interest. Nothing at all wrong with that. But something about the Tasmanian Devil, dried and smiling up at me from my toes, told me that this could still be one of life's simple pleasures for me, something I needed to revisit.

3.

On Monday, still fresh from the weekend and the pedicure appointment, I cleaned out my nail polish collection. Mind you, the collection wasn't too vast to begin with, but there were some colors that didn't suit me very well. Into the garbage they went. Later that day, I replenished my supply with a few new choices -- a coral-y red, a dark green, and a navy. (They have kooky nail polish names of their own, of course, but those descriptions will do for now.) And on Tuesday, as my son napped in his crib, I busted out the dark green for some at-home manicuring. I started with clean nails, then did a clear base coat, two coats of the green, and a top coat to minimize chipping. (Side note: it has already chipped so much! I need lessons on this stuff!)

And while it felt a little odd, like I was severely out of practice, there's definitely something about thoughtfully, patiently painting my nails that calms me. I've never felt that way about doing my hair or shaving or putting on makeup, but the nail polish somehow is its own thing. It soothes me. And the finished product brightens my mood. The need for precision and smooth motion engages my brain in something measurable yet meaningless, like the repetition of a mantra that eventually just becomes connected sounds instead of actual words. It's meditation, really. Pre-teen me probably understood that, on some level.