Finger Daggers

Too high. Wish I could play tape in the sober moments, so I could grab up those really good ideas that come to mind when I am laying down in a semi-coma. Become a real writer. For a living. Inevitably, though, I would watch myself in playback from the day before and see bad habits, ugly facial expressions, fat dumb me, etc. My self-loathing would skyrocket. Or worse, I could become a narcissist and no longer be able to enjoy laughing at all of the LookAtMe nuts running around on reality TV. Bad road either way. 

About TV. Let’s talk about those pointy scary knife nails women on TV are sporting. I say TV as I am fairly certain I only actually know two gals who wear nails like this in normal life. But I see them on both fiction and reality TV, so obviously some people bit the bait hook and live this way. This new feminine ideal I keep seeing is turning true tools of magic and mechanical genius into semi-useless flippers on the end of women’s arms. Nothing can get picked up or used without flattening the fingers into a duck head hand puppet. It’s difficult to easily picture a woman creating something, doctoring, or, hell, even writing or typing when you see these weapons of questionable reason. I mostly imagine flapping of hands and adjusting of hair extensions,  immediately followed by one flipper waving skyward in counterbalance to the giant expensive handbag in the crook of that arm, thus wholly eliminating use of an entire upper limb as she totters along in stilettos. 

Not to say I don’t love me some nails. I live in a constant battle, attempting to grow something feminine on the ends of my man-hands. Whoops, see there…what I just did. I equivocated femininity with excess keratin (or fiberglass or gel or what have you) pointed precariously into thin air, yet groomed and painted and celebrated and budgeted for like precious children.

Girls are weird.

I also love high heels. I just can’t wear them anymore. So perhaps this entire rant is simple jealousy.