Staring at my feet this morning because I have nothing else better to do, it occurred to me that I haven’t seen my toenails in a long time.

Not that I have a huge belly that prevents me from seeing my toes, a possibility I will not rule out, and no, not because I’ll one day carry a child, but from my insatiable appetite.

But because my toenails have always been covered in nail polish.

2008 was the year of dark reddish lacquer, prior to that, I was young and naïve, and any colour rocked. 2009 was a year of nude lacquer. 2010 started with French white tips, and by mid-January I finally see my natural toenails in their natural beauty.

And they are pretty.

Fingernails on the other hand, I do not like so much naked.

I was a vain little girl and my nail colors changed with the week. Soon it became a little work of art and people were taking notice, which motivated me to keep them up and keep them fresh.

FACT: I started painting my nails because I found the activity therapeutic. Whenever I got upset or angry or feel heartbroken, I would retreat and take the time to paint my nails. With the nails painted and glistening, all negativity would have fallen away.

I think the above fact is the same logic my mom took whenever she would make me cry from her lectures and then smooth them over by plaiting my hair.

Unfortunately, as with most things overdone, nail painting stopped being a therapy but just something that must be done.

And yes, I am sure I have nothing else better to do, nothing else more pressing to write than to write a 300 word count post about staring at my unpolished nails and the history of their vanity.

I am super procrastinator.