I have never thought about my nails more than I have in the past few weeks, and it's rubbing a little spot in my brain pretty raw. This is one of the only jobs I've ever had that doesn't at some point require handling some sort of soil, dead animal, or child-related substance (paste, poop, you know.) Plus my nail beds are on the deeper side so I can get away with keeping them short and still have something to polish when I feel like it. So this is the first time I've ever let them grow, and it is equal parts awesome and anxiety-provoking. They look so pretty IF I DO SAY SO MYSELF, but I had to figure out how to use a file because I'm not a damn Rockefeller and ten dollars a week (bonus baby confession: I overtip) for a manicure takes too much away from my Diet Coke and cigarettes fund. So the real confession here is that last night I legitimately almost cried over my fingernails. Luckily my boyfriend was there to talk me through it. By which I of course mean that he threatened to stop cooking dinner if I cried real tears over fingernails that there were ten of and that were not bleeding.
My mom met me in the city on Saturday, and we spent the whole day taking selfies in Central Park. We briefly left the park to get lunch at Shake Shack because Shake Shack duh and also, I eat kale and beets all week so. This confession is sort of two parts. The first is that after I ate a milkshake and a cheeseburger and french fries with my mom, I met my boyfriend and his family for his dad's birthday dinner and ate ANOTHER burger for dinner. To be fair to myself, the burgers were made of different meats. And to be even more fair to myself, the Nutella-drenched belgian waffle I ate off a truck that same day had strawberries on it. So, nutrients. The second part of the confession is that whenever I go to Central Park I imagine myself into some fantastical scenario. Like, I'm traveling in time and have landed in Central Park. Or I'm filming a reality show. Or I'm in a Woody Allen movie. Or I'm a King. Or a celebrity trying to be under the radar.
This picture isn't from this weekend, it's from like February, but look at the weird look on my face. In this picture, in my brain, I have just emerged from a wardrobe door into Central Park.
This picture IS from this weekend. It's my mom's butt.
The last confession for this week is that I have been walking a couple of blocks out of my way on the way to work every morning in order to walk past a doughnut bakery. I'm not even that into doughnuts. I'm never like, "Oh man I could really go for a doughnut right now." Ever. But I literally followed the scent of doughnuts to this doughnut factory last week and now it's my routine. My daily doughnut sniffing. (The one where Jim leaves Michael at the gas station and Holly tracks him to the rooftop? Anyone?)
Thank you to Becky for prompting me to blog, and therefore distracting me from obsessing over my nails.
