First world problems
Because I never plan my life with enough time to do everything I have scheduled, I was forced to leave for the airport today with chipped toenail polish, a much bigger deal if I were headed to a white sand beach. Then again, I’d have bigger issues to worry about—namely, my ass—if I were going for a vacation which required a bathing suit and flippy floppies. Again, due to time restraints, I haven’t straddled a bike seat in three weeks which makes for a fun little equation: No gym for 21 days + the metabolism of a barely-holding-on-to-thirty-nine-year-old = very, very tight and uncomfortable pants. Thank God we live in the era of tunics.
With a few minutes to spare before leaving for the airport this morning, I figured I’d quick give myself a manicure and at least have my fingers looking clean and Parisian. I painted them with a color that could have been mistaken for my morning yogurt, which I snarfed down between applications. No, I didn’t confuse the two, though I did sort of loose my appetite.
As soon as I’d finished the second coat, my cell phone rang and wouldn’t you know it, but it was tucked neatly into the pocket of my 5,000 pound backpack (thanks, Katie!). Instead of waiting five minutes and letting the call go to voice mail, I harkened back to my days of playing Operation and reached gingerly into the compartment. In nabbed the phone with a pincer-like movement and thinking I had it, whipped it out, smearing my nails along the inside of the pocket (sorry, Katie!). I suddenly remembered the many shocks I received trying to remove a ham-bone.
I ended up in the bathroom, cursing my idiocy, removing the nail polish I’d just applied 10 minutes earlier. My nails are naked again and they are going to Paris that way. But I’ll get ‘em all dolled up for Postiano. Or, at least, I’ll get them drunk on wine, baguettes and cheese.
Yo, people: I’m going to Europe!!! This is how I’m feeling right about now:
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