(Please note. Some of my descriptions may be exaggerations of the truth in order to capture attention of the reader. To make that statement clearer- the guys bathroom in our house is not nearly as horrific as I made it sound. Please refrain from reading the following if you are young, elderly, or if you have just eaten.)
In the world of feminism, you have your girly-girls and your tomboys. I like to think that I'm somewhere in the gray- meaning I can play football with the guys but still be recognized as a semi-attractive female being. As of yesterday, I'm learning that I lack some of the skills that most girls have naturally. Let me elaborate.
2 p.m. I'm bored- and tired of my gross, chipped toenails. They were last painted at Shelby's house about a week ago and they were starting to look nasty. I really only wanted to remove the paint, that's all. It's certainly not rocket science- at least not to most. But there was one teeny issue- the polish remover was in the other house in the guys bathroom (it used to be the family bathroom and let's just say I haven't used polish remover in a lonnng time). No biggie- even though I wasn't particularly looking forward to trekking into the guys house. It scares me a little. I like to think that I'm not bothered by gross guy stench and mess, but it sounds about as appealing as hanging out in the woods with a bunch of those creepy red-cloaked monsters from 'The Village'. (Gee, thanks, M N Shamalan. You've ruined camping for me FOREVER!). So anyways, I put on my shoes and headed over. The other house was actually pretty clean-- but when I looked at the door to the bathroom I couldn't help but think of all those horror movies. What was lurking behind there? Sludge? Severed limbs? I expected the worse.
The light was dim and it reeked of body odor. The walls told tales of a recent crime scene- mysterious spatters of red in one spot or another. A thick layer of grime coated the sink. I inhaled deeply before entering- savoring my breath. Gingerly I moved around bottles and containers on the shelf. No polish remover. I opened the med cabinet and thoroughly searched it. Still nothing. But I did find red nail polish. A thought occurred to me. Why did I have to remove the old polish? Why not just paint over the old?
That is why ten minutes later I was safely back in my room, unscrewing the cap to the polish. Other girls made it look so easy (painting toenails, that is). But I found that as I tried to oh-so-carefully paint, the brush wouldn't agree with me. It got all over my big toe.
Cursing, I tried to wipe away the excess polish. Nothing was working. I was merely smearing it all over my foot and I was getting it on my hands too. By the time I was finally finished the toes on my left foot looked so awful that I wished I'd have never touched them.
Sigh. I guess I'm just more of a tomboy.
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