So, I was having fun with the whole manicure/hand thing. I put huge amounts of lotion on my hands at regular intervals to make sure they were hydrated, smooth, and supple. I decided to put off making chicken soup because I didn’t want to pick off the meat from my roasted chicken, fearing for my nails. I was intent on making sure my fingers were in tip-top shape for my first brush with hand modeling stardom.

And it was awesome.

I held an ornament and an apple at various angles and with various finger positions. I tried to channel Eve–tried to make my hands look inviting, a little seductive, relaxed, post-temptation. It was goofy. Silly, even, how seriously I took it. But, it was so much fun! I was sitting in a leather chair, a small padded table in front of me, draped with brown paper. An orangey tinted light shone down on my hand, and a white backdrop was being lit to my right. The cameraman’s camera was off to my left and was entirely impressive–and in the interest of not turning this into some kind of embarrassing metaphor, I’ll just say it was very cool. It was hooked up to an Apple laptop (but of course) and after each picture was shot, it would pop up on the screen. The cameraman would say “Shooting” before he’d press the trigger, so that I could close my eyes and avoid the bright flash. I tilted my hand this way and that, held different ornaments (some with “bites” taken out of them).

Word on the street is that I have some sort of talent at hand modeling. And, apparently hand models make something like $200 an hour! But not in Wilmington. We’d have to move somewhere else. I’m totally willing to make the sacrifice. My new career is calling! I could hold coffee cups! Lipstick tubes! Day planners! Oh, the possibilities!

But, realistically I’d never make it as a hand model. All this attention to my hands has made me notice so many of their flaws. My knuckles are a little too knobby. My hands aren’t as smooth as they could be, a few too many lines here and there. And the ring finger on my right hand is defective. I’m not entirely sure what happened to it, but I used to hold my pencil between my middle finger and my ring finger, and apparently I did that a little too much because the last digit of my ring finger bends in a funny way. If you look at the last digit of your fingers, you’ll probably see a wrinkle maybe a half inch before your nail. My ring finger doesn’t have one of those. I wonder if there is a finger surgeon out there who could correct this? Would that be a business expense? Perhaps there is still hope…

So, I got a manicure today. The only other time I have gotten a manicure was when I was 11 or something. My mom took me to the salon where we got haircuts, only that day we were there to get my nails done. I remember the paint was pink, a light shade, and I felt very grown up. I don’t remember there being any special reason why I got my nails done. It was just nice. But that was the last time I got my nails done. I think I might like being the kind of person who gets manicures (i.e. rich), but it’s never been a priority for me.

But today, I had a reason. Tomorrow my hands are going to be photographed up close for some kind of church graphic Christmas thing. I don’t know. I think I’m going to be holding an apple. I’m fairly excited about this. My hands have never gotten any attention from anyone else–and they don’t get any attention from me on a regular basis. Hence, the manicure.

I went to a little place next to Wal-Mart, and when I walked in around 2:00 this afternoon I was the only one there. I felt awkward. I was trying to pretend that I did this regularly. It seemed like some kind of girly thing I should know how to do, by instinct or whatever. Hello. Sign in? Oh, okay. No polish, thanks.

The woman began filing my nails (rounded, please, I was warned to ask for that), pausing only to switch on the television. A soap opera was on, and I glanced up at it every now and then. Someone had died. Oh, wait. I know those names. He died? I used to watch soaps when I was 16, and I figured out that I used to watch this one (though it wasn’t my favorite). I went back to watching my hands. He was really old anyway. And that was a long time ago.

It struck me, as she was dousing my fingers with various types of solutions, that I wouldn’t know when the manicure was over. What step was the last step? She pulled out some lotion and started rubbing my arms and hands (which alarmed me at first, but felt remarkably good). When she was done with that, she stood up. Surely that was all? She walked across the room, was fiddling with something. Should I stand up? Make my way to the cash register up front? I imagined her wondering what I was doing. She would speak in Vietnamese or Korean or whatever (sorry, I know it’s bad, but I couldn’t tell) to the man sitting in the corner–what is she doing? Why is she still here?

But she came back with a warm washcloth and started rubbing it on my hands and arms. Okay, guess it’s not over yet. When she finished, she started picking up her utensils (all kinds of cutting, scraping, and sanding types of things) and the towel, and then she told me how much it would be. Phew. That was a pretty good sign that the manicure was over. I stood up, paid, and left, walking the way I imagined someone who got regular manicures (even the cheap, Wal-Mart shopping plaza kind) would walk. Casual. Entitled. Girly.

Of course, I’ve been looking at my hands all day since then.