There was spilling and splattering and swearing. There was miscalculation and eye strain and major smudgery. There was contortion and physical pain and psychological damage. There was blame and remorse and back-pedaling. There was repetition of the following statement: "When will I ever learn?" There was the SJG on a Labor Day morn, making idle threats. "I can do this. I can defy the odds. I can accomplish the unthinkable." What with the cloudy vision, there was an unhappy result, a flop, a failure. Throughout history, pundits have advised against it, they've said, "Don't go there, girlfriend," and "Walk away while you still can." Did I listen? No. For I'm the SJG. I'm short and I'm stubborn and I wanted what I couldn't have on short notice: pretty pink toes. I did my own pedicure, people, and it was bad. I'm an unskilled laborer. I went outside the lines. I put polish in places polish shouldn't go. On the sides of my toes, on the bottoms of my toes, on my hands and under my nails. Before leaving for the joyous engagement party, where I knew the other gals' toenails would look lovelier than mine, I told hubby, "If I ever say I'm going to do my toes, talk me out of it." He glanced ruefully at my feet and said, "Done." I quickly slipped off my sandals and slipped on a pair of shoes, keeping my disaster private, and you know how hard that is for me.
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