This is a Thanksgiving post. Can’t you tell from its title? It is. And I write it with great love for all women with crappy fingernails.
You have finished cleaning your home. Laundered your tablecloths and napkins. Dug out your roasting pan and rack and baster. Your nails have taken a beating.
You have been to the market. Picked up your 900-pound turkey. Dragged it to your car. Stuffed it in your refrigerator. You can’t even look at your nails.
You have found each last serving dish and utensil. Set the table. Stuffed candles into each candle holder. There are no nails left to get candle wax stuck under.
You’ve been to the market again. You’ve ripped open bags of potatoes and yams and apples. Peeled and sliced them (the potatoes and yams and apples, not the bags). You’ve scrubbed and cut green beans and squash. Shelled peas. Prepared your homemade cranberry sauce that everyone loves so much. And found the recipe for your mother-in-law’s stuffing. Back to the market.
You’ve washed your hands a trillion times so as not to cross-contaminate any food products. No, you just can’t get used to haz-mat rubber gloves in your kitchen.
You’ve whipped the potatoes and squash and appetizer dips. Your hands have been in and out of a 300-some-odd-degree oven for 3 straight days. You’ve opened countless jars and cans and bottles of olives, baby onions, wine. Oh, crap. You make a quick run to the liquor store.
You’ve been on the phone for 3 weeks explaining to guests that they do not have to bring anything but themselves… but when they insist, you make quick lists. They show up with nothing. Back to the kitchen to scrub the grapes and strawberries and slice the exotic cheeses that you purchased just in case the extra appetizers and desserts didn’t arrive. Can you say “stubs”?
Ah. The meal. The glorious Thanksgiving Dinner.
Grace. Heads bent. Hands folded in prayer. You lovingly glance at your family and friends and feast. Dancing before you are the hands of each woman at your table… glistening in your candlelight with color and shine and length and perfection.
Cue in the horror-movie soundtrack.
Your nails. What nails?
So… when you see a woman this Thanksgiving with crappy fingernails, kiss the cook. She’s traded lovely nails for lovely memories.
I used to be the one with those nails. Now my daughter does the Thanksgiving meal, and I get it. The first Thanksgiving thing I will do tomorrow is kiss my daughter~
You, my dear, are working too hard! But I have no doubt your family loves you for it.
So funny! And so true. I hope you get a manicure after the holidays – you certainly deserve it!
Well now I don’t feel so bad about my crappy fingernails!
For some reason, I didn’t read this post until now, which was meant to be. I couldn’t sleep and got up to check in with you. This is a perfect post about fingernails. You hit the nail right on the head and so very well said. I am sitting here in the dark cracking up at 5 am on a Sat. morning when most people are sleeping in a warm cozy bed. I was just thinking yesterday Sharon, at my desk at work that my fingernails are crappy. I have a couple of long ones on one hand and I wonder why I don’t just cut them down to match the other crappy ones. They have been washed so many times the past few days, you are so right. I love the part of your post that tells about your company who asks what they can bring and end up coming empty handed….you are the queen of great posts….Thanks Sharon for entertaining us!
I have crappy fingernails.
About ten years ago, I got a manicure a few times, but I could not stand always being careful to take care not to chip polish or split nails. I just want to do what I need to do without spending time watching that my nails look good. They don’t. So what? I’m so not glamorous it’s not funny, as plain as can be. Gray hair, little make-up, crappy fingernails.
I live with my crappy fingernails and I’m okay with that.
Thank you.