Thursday, May 18, 2006

Having reeled and stumbled from Chico's per my last post, I now can think about more substantial things in life. I'm going to think along the lines which will make me peer down at my french manicured fingernails and toenails, which lie glamorously below this hotel sofa table. Lie glamorously. That's funny!

My friend and I made an appointment for fingers and toes last week. I was a virgin. No lady had ever touched me before in that manner. I had a standard of natural beautiness and non-grating nail sensationalism. But I wanted to spend time with my friend and so there I was with my feet in scalding water. A lady with a chisel awaited in the corner.

My friend was an eager Christian teen before she married a Jew and became active in their synagogue. She's a wonderful, wonderful person ... authentic with a laugh that envelops you and makes you sense sorrow and joy and perception all together. We both went through a lonely phase when we weren't working, and we would get together and sing "Coal Miner's daughter" at my house. Don't all lonely people do that? She then began work, and I would see her occassionally at book club meetings.

We chatted and relaxed during the procedure. She laughed, and I did my usual whatever-strangely-endears-me-to-her bit (still not sure what that is although she's been trying to spell it out lately in her writing, bizarre!). It wasn't too bad really. My nails turned out oval and elegant and the clear polish won't supposedly turn my nails yellow in the long run.

Afterwards, we went into a small restaurant and had the conversation we were supposed to have. About our daughters. Two purposeful mothers with trunks of love spurned by surprise in various unpleasant ways. I was the first person she's shared all this pain with she said. I was honored in that we could even approach such honesty with each other. I would not be judged (or 'discerned' by her as sometimes our language of judgment goes) or advised or rebuked. I was just one other Mom whose small girl had been enveloped by some cracks.

Happily, her daughter hit hard times and returned. They are reading books again together. She's hugging her good mom again.

Hope is potent, and sharing is healing. Our talk gave me both, not to mention the beautiful nails which type glamorously these days as I wait during these essential times.

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