Meeting one of my own over Mentos

I worked a double today at my restaurant job in order to get time off for The First Ladies Project (which is about to start its second weekend of shows!), the second one in a row. I am totally anti-double and almost never deign to work them, but I had to do what I had to do. Needless to say, my feet feel like they have been run over by a Mack Truck. By the end of my shift tonight, I would have paid money to be able to sit down. Finally, it was time to clock out.

After hobbling to the subway station, I uncomfortably shifted my weight on the train platform. The only thing that will make me feel a little better about life is a candy, I thought. Thankfully, the 51st street subway station has an all-hours mini bodega inside of it. Ah, the twenty-four hour bodega. Really, it's the little things that count.

I limped to the excruciatingly lit, severely small cubicle, where a petite Indian girl sat behind the counter. I surveyed the candy options. Did I want a chocolate, or a Sour Patch Kid? I typically go for the Sour Patch Cherries, which seem to only be available for purchase in subway bodegas. I've never seen them anywhere else. They're special to me in this way. And always an even $1. Candy at Rite Aid is never this convenient.

Ah, what the hell. Why not go for a candy masquerading as a breath refresher? I reached for the fruit Mentos, and as I did so, the petite Indian girl peered over the counter. "Hey," she said. "Do you have a nail biting habit?"

I froze. This is the question I fear most. No other sequence of words in the English language make me feel as vulnerable, disgusting, immature and self-loathing, all at once. I am a nail-biter. A really bad one. I have bitten my nails for as long as I can remember. And by bite, I mean knaw, ravage, rip apart and tear out. My nails are a shocking sight to anyone but myself, but I've become so sly at hiding them during everyday activities that people barely notice. (Or at least, that's my understanding thus far.) Friends who have known me for ten years have said, "Oh, you bite your nails? I didn't know that." Yeah, it's because I've become a star at hiding them from you. Oh, and I think your brother is hot.

The Indian girl looked at me with big eyes.

Clenching my fists and digging the tips of my fingers into my palms, I laughed, "Yes. They're terrible, aren't they?"

The girl smiled. "Mine used to look just like yours," she replied. I hesitated. I've never seen anyone's nails look as savagely ripped to shreds apart as my own.

Extending her fingers in front of me, she continued, "But I stopped biting them a month ago. I've started to paint them!" I leaned in. They looked pretty good. They were definitely still considered short nails, but they were smooth and curved at the edges.

"You've only been growing them out one month?" I asked. "How did you stop?"

She retracted her hands. "I just stopped putting them in my mouth," she said. "And you know what else? I said to myself one day, 'You deserve to look pretty.' So many times I looked down at my hands and thought, 'Are these a girl's hands?' And I decided I can be pretty. I started with my nails. Next is my tummy!"

We laughed together, and I heard the rush of the train outside our tiny bodega. I handed her a dollar bill. "It was nice talking to you," I said. "Inspiring." She smiled, and as I turned from her to stagger to the train, I felt oddly proud. It reassured me to know that all anything takes is one choice, one moment in which you say, "I deserve this." If you feel like you deserve it enough, you'll make it happen for yourself. After being a nail-biter for twenty-three years, what would my life be like if I had these keratin tools at the tips of my fingers? I'm curious. I wish I were curious enough. I'm not sure that I am.

Nibble.