I have determined a lot comes down to my cuticles.
If someone wants to know where I’m at, how close to the losing-my-shit line I am, or whether or not I’ve had bread for breakfast and lunch, all they need to do is look at my cuticles.
I’m not a cuticle abuser; the opposite, when things are aligned, and I’m a happy camper, I put this yummy smelling oil on my cuticles. I used to bite my nails something fierce. All through college, but at some point, I stopped and began taking care of my hands. Odd that my hands became so important as I grew older. Maybe I knew back then that someday my hands and I would work together so intimately.
Probably not, I knew little of myself back then.
Regardless, my hands are essential now. One is tattooed. I keep my nails short and square. Lotion a few times a day and always at night. I push back my cuticles after my shower, paint my nails when I have time, and, assuming I’m not flailing about, the yummy oil.
I pamper my hands because I love them. Even when I don’t love my whole self, I love my hands for translating what’s in my head and working to put things down before I forget or change my mind.
If my cuticles are dry, I’m off somewhere being my smaller self. I’m ignoring what fills me up and propels me through the fog. Without the oil, you can be sure I’m neglecting my favorite parts and the whole.
Small steps rarely held value for me during the nail-biting years. I was pushing for perfection, punishing my hands, myself, instead of celebrating me.
I’ve learned a few things. Perfect left me one night thanks to a nasty hot glue gun burn sometime after midnight. Without perfect, I have floundered for a time, but the important things are so small.
I get that now.
Sure signs with people are hard to spot. Instead of asking me how I am, check my hands or inquire about my new favorite oil.
Ask about my cuticles, and you’ll know. My hands and I are presently into pomegranate oil. Thanks for asking.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Turn Over.