My left hand won’t stop quivering. Ambidexterity was never something I attempted to cultivate and my poor right hand is paying the price for my ordinariness. Painstakingly, I hold the tip of the nail polish applicator over the cuticle on my thumb. A hard jerk, and a wet blob of sea foam green blots the line separating cuticle from nail. Crap! I use the thumbnail from my opposite hand to clear the mistake. I am ready to try again. The online suggestions I read earlier did not include holding my breath, but I squash the air in my chest as if breathing will further unsteady my clumsy hand. The applicator touches nail this time. I drag the brush toward the tip of my thumb, leaving a trail of the pretty green color behind it. A dab of polish lands on the soft curve of flesh; another swipe of the opposite thumbnail erases that smudge, too. I smile. I master my accident prone tendencies and get prettified in the process. So much win.
For more on my struggles with fingernail polish and other ‘lady-like’ accouterments, check out Part 1 of my piece “Trying on Womanhood” at The Closet Feminist!
dara t. mathis 