Bye Bye Acrylics

Yes, I’m staring down at my nasty paper-thin stubs that look like the result of some lumber company’s chainsaw massacre,  my fingers destroyed for eternity.  (You don't need to see a picture of this).  And I readily admit my nails weren’t gorgeous to begin with, but I’m not happy, and I need to vent.
 

You see I didn’t learn from my mistakes.  This is the second time it’s happened.  This is the second time I got an infection under my thumb and forefinger where I again rushed to the ER to get them clean and disinfected, and later, all my fake nails removed.

No, I’m not going to beat myself up.  Well not forever.   It’s not like I got divorced and then married the same shlub all over again.  No, it wasn’t that horrendous--though it teeters on borderline stupid.

good looking acrylic nails--not mine

The first time it happened I asked my nail tech, Lorrene (not her real name, and I don’t remember her real name anyway) why it occurred.  She said I must’ve knocked my fingers against something and broken the seal, which allowed water to seep underneath. 

                                                                                          

Then it was bound to happen again.  I’m hard on my hands, always banging into something, which is why I could never grow my real ones in the first place, and is the reason I turned to fake. 

fancy acrylic nails, not mine

But I loved the fake ones!  My squatty square-knuckled fingers looked like Miss America’s.  For the first few months, everybody marveled at the perfection until bits of green began creeping under them.  Hey, what was going on?  It was like Johnny Appleseed working the nail beds--a modern leprechaun applying for the chlorophyll rights.

Infection.  Dammit.  Lorrene removed all the nails, and I railed against acrylics, preached against their unholiness, like the pope decrying two gay priests marrying secretly in the Sistine Chapel on a Saturday night.

So what was I doing in the ER last week getting a tetanus shot and an RX for cipro?
You see, my girlfriend Jan (not her real name though I do remember it) got these gel nails a few years ago and said they were safe.

“But fake nails are the worst things ever," I argued.

“But look at mine."  She fanned her nails in front of me.  "I’ve never worn anything neater.  These things are made in heaven.”

I hid my astonishingly jagged stubs behind my back as I examined hers carefully.  It’s been 20 years, and times had changed.  Gels were new, different.  Should I?  My husband would love them.  I took the plunge.
 

Months went by, even a year, until Johnny Appleseed reared his misshapen green head once again, and once again I was force to race behind the ambulances and into the double sliding-glass doors.
 

So what now?  Should I hide my head in shame?  Yeah, yeah, I could do that.

Or...                                       

Maybe I should start a ten-step program, assigning sponsorships and calling it Acrylics Anonymous.   

Crazy, huh?  

 We can walk on the moon, but we can’t find Terry new tips.