I am on another “fingernail” binge.
It had been years since I dressed up my short, cracked, stubby nails.
I had given up having “girly” nails in the past. You see, I use my fingernails for everything. I pry the tab on the canned cat food with my nails, I scrub food particles from the corners of pots and pans, I scrape off little sticky substances from the floor, I dig in the dirt with my hands.
Yes, and I wonder why my nails look bad.
Discipline. That’s what I need. I need to get hold of myself and respect my nails.
I ought to put rubber gloves on hands when doing dishes, don garden gloves when working in the flower pots and use utensils to pull tabs on Coke and cat food cans. Since I also pry open the tin of Amish Chickweed Salve with my fingernails, I guess I’d better figure out another way to open it, too.
Is there any doubt why I hide my nails when I am dealing out the cards at bridge club?
Polish didn’t seem to help, either. It just accentuated my stubby nails.
Remember when I tried applying false eyelashes myself and how the lashes were hanging from my cheek bones, and stuck on my eyebrows?
Remember when I also tried applying false nails myself?
The glue stuck to everything BUT the nails, and soon, my fingers were stuck to each other. The fingernails, in the meantime, adhered firmly to my knuckles and to every part of my hand except for where they were meant to be.
I vowed for the umpteenth time that I was done with that glue in the little tubes. Hang with me.
Just lately, I did it again. I have a short memory, I guess. Or I think I have “matured” to the point that I now will know how to use the stuff.
Ten days ago, I got the hair-brained idea to “doll” up my hands with false nails. Once they were applied I would enjoy the new me.
So, that is exactly what happened. A manicurist applied beautiful, not too long, sparkling pink polished nails over the ones Mother Nature gave me.
But, about five days later, I was climbing out of our car and jumping over a puddle when I caught my hand on the edge of the door and flipped a nail. In horse owner language, I “threw a shoe.” That’s when a horse loses one of his shoes. It happens.
Back to the manicurist.
After the repair, it happened again to the pointer finger.
Feeling too embarrassed to again “bother” the manicurist, I decided to fix it my self. This time I had “the” nail in my possession. “All I need is a tube of that strong glue,” I thought to myself.
I zipped to the hardware store and bought some Big Buddy stick-em in the little tube, and soon was at the task ahead. I felt confident.
Cutting the end off the little tip, I squeezed to see if it would come out.
It came out all right. I grabbed the nail and stuck it on my pointer finger. But, the glue stuck to my hand, and when I grabbed the tweezers, the tweezers hooked on to my thumb and finger. My fingers were now stuck together just like the last time.
Not wanting to ruin the rest of the manicure, I then used my pinky to push the nail form over my finger. The nail set up but it was pointing to the left, not straight ahead like it was supposed to do.
The glue was stuck to my hands and it dried rapidly. The crooked nail was fixed. But the glue was everywhere. It wouldn’t scrape off my hands. I did get my fingers separated, and finally had possession of my hands again.
We were due at a social event in five minutes. The glue looked pretty bad.
I decided that I would once again be hiding my hands.

Judi Tabler is a guest columnist for the Great Bend Tribune and her views don’t necessarily reflect those of the paper. She can be reached at bluegrasses@gmail.com.