(via weheartit )
For the most of my 19 years of existence I have gone without two things: a job for longer than two months and the desire to have my nails painted on a regular basis. Two things that never really correlated until this very moment in time.
You see, I’ve never really been the type of girl who felt the need to be pampered or have a stranger scrub the bottom of my foot with a pumice stone whilst reading Us Weekly. I’d very much rather sit on my scratchy roof (same pumice stone texture for free!) with a book. And deal with some seriously creepy looking feet. And that’s fine with me. Until maybe about a month ago.
I guess I should also mention that I’m an incredibly stubborn creature. I will never ask for help and I will never admit defeat. I also will choose to not do something if someone asks me to do a specific task. If you ever want me to play tennis with you or wash the dishes, I will never do either of those things. I have no idea why. It’s just how I work. Just don’t ask me, I’ll end up playing tennis with you AND doing the dishes!
And if you ask me to not paint my nails a specific color you should know that I will rebel in some sort of way.
Or at the very least, post something on my blog about it.
Which brings me to this week at my job. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. It’s very steady and reliable and I get to say I worked as a carnie to all my future employers(!!!). And I’ve definitely had much worse summer jobs throughout high school, and even though I basically function as a modern-day carnie (I work at a certain theme park, ahem), I get to spend my workday giving stuffed animals to children. And that’s much better than serving pad-thai in a kimono to very cranky Russian businessmen. At least I think so.
And over time, I’ve found myself also growing fond of my weekly nail-painting ritual. I get this awesome tunnel vision (possibly from the nail polish remover fumes?), blast my music, and paint my nails so sloppily that it looks like I finger painted them.
Until this week. When my managers told me my favorite nail polish could get me written up. And sure, this might be categorized as a “white girl problem”, but for me it really spun a huge web of thoughts for me.
All of them were along the lines of “Mack-fizzle (don’t hate on my subconscious talking to me), what are you doing? You’re a modern day carnie. In Orlando. Living in the same old place. And you can’t even paint your nails how you like. That’s incredibly messed up. Reevaluate yourself for a minute”. Don’t get me wrong, I’m getting closer and closer to living the life I imagined myself having when I was 10. I left a school I felt was completely wrong for me. I’ve been in a play and a musical . I’ve gotten close to what I wanted for myself when I was ten. Performer of some sort. On a stage somewhere (with my clothes on, mind you). Entertaining people (still with my clothes on, mind you). And having some bad-a$$ painted nails. Because I can. But I know for daggone sure that staying in Orlando with job-neutral nail polish is definitely temporary.
It’s funny how a little thing like nail-painting can make you re-evaluate your choices, right? Deep down, I’m very content. I don’t have really any ties to Orlando or any place or person, so I’m basically free to go anywhere and do anything I choose, and that makes me incredibly happy and free. So why am I still in Orlando? Well, student loans are one. And the fact that I have a job here is a plus. But I’m nearly done paying them off, so what will happen after that? Where will I go then?
Well, let’s just say I might not be calling this place home anymore. And I’m painting my nails anyway I damn well please.
Hot pink. With crystals. And maybe some bedazzled skulls for good measure.
And the people I sit next to on my one-way flight to wherever I choose will definitely be in awe of them.
currently listening to ‘marry you’// glee cast.