I may have given the impression in these pages that I’m a devotee of naturalism in all things. That is far from the whole truth. Oh sure, I’ve posted entries about home-made granola (almost the definition of hippie-dippy natural). I write about gardening a lot. I’m kind of a tree hugger, as evidenced by the name of this blog (see link to my page titled “Why Mulberry Jam?”). But I don’t believe in naturalism all the time. How boring that would be! In fact, under certain circumstances I am a big believer in artifice and surface decoration.
Take nail polish, for example. I am almost never without some bright color painted on my toes, and frequently add a complementary color to my fingertips. Since taking up a fairly serious yoga practice in recent years, I spend a good amount of time looking at my own bare feet. This has only encouraged me in my little vice. I don’t go for girly shell pinks or translucent beige, either. I’m more likely to wear a dark red, royal blue or iridescent green. Glancing down to catch a glimpse of something bright just makes me smile.
I realize that I may be sacrificing readers’ respect for me by admitting this. When I was in graduate school many years ago, makeup of any kind was seen as unserious and shallow. Let alone nail polish. I used to indulge furtively on weekends when I thought none of my professors or fellow students would see. After I left school and started working, I expected to find a broader range of opinion about such decoration. But I had to admit to myself that it was often secretaries who had the manicures, while female managers left nails short and unpolished. (It could be that my sample is skewed because I live and work in Washington, which has to be one of the more uptight cities in the nation.)
But I finally decided it was simple insecurity that led many people to avoid the bright fun of a painted digit. Now I say, hang what anyone else thinks. Have fun! I’ve almost become an ambassador of polish. I once took a small bottle of lavender to a friend’s house for a touch-up before a summer rock concert and wound up painting the toes of every woman in the group. One woman (who I would have considered far too serious for that kind of thing) called me later to ask the name of the color so she could find it. And why should women have all the fun with this kind of body-consciousness? I’ve painted the toes of men more than once, and you wouldn’t believe the sheepish delight even some manly hockey-playing types will take in it. For the guys, use a dark blue-black or gunmetal gray color, and it really doesn’t look as odd as it may sound.
My favorite conversion story is my own mother. She happened to be born with club feet, quickly corrected while she was still a baby. The casts she wore as an infant left her with a few toenails permanently creased. She’s always hated her feet, and I can seldom remember her wearing open-toed sandals when I was young. Two summers ago I presented her with a bottle of a soft blush-apricot color and got down on my knees to paint her toes myself. She was thrilled. It was a revelation to see her enjoy her own feet that way. She tells me now that she almost never goes without polish anymore.
What harmless little pleasure would you be enjoying if you didn’t care what other people thought?
