I Need A Manicure

I've always been a nail-biter. Try as I might (though to be fair, I haven't put too much effort into trying) I cannot remember a time when I didn't chew on my fingernails. As I got older, I got better at stopping myself, but all it took was a few stressful moments and all of my previous effort was wasted.

Most recently, I managed to have lovely, well-maintained, regularly self-manicured fingernails about two years ago. For several months, I was able to avoid biting my fingernails. And then whole barrels of crazy rolled their way into our lives. It started with a Christmas vacation  trip to Minnesota. Exactly one week before we left (the point at which I was beginning to give up hope of ever finding a suitable winter jacket for Olette), I chewed down every last fingernail. After that, I all but gave up. There was always something going on, and my fingernails were there, ready and willing to be sacrificed in the name of my mental health.

Fast forward to now. Somehow having our house (even with all the bill-juggling, cutting back, and scraping by we're having to do until I find a job), has convinced my fingers and teeth that my neurosis is no longer necessary. It's a good feeling. Call me crazy, but it's almost like my subconscious is telling me not to worry-- now that things are starting to fall into place, they're not going to stop until they all end up where they belong. (I promise I'm not crazy or superstitious. I just find it odd that I've managed to accomplish some minor self-improvement with absolutely no effort on my part. It happens so rarely that I might as well ascribe some portent to it.)