Anyone who’s been in a relationship knows there are a lot of crazy things you’ll do for love. One of them may include letting your girlfriend paint your toenails so she can get some educational practice. The only time that can be a problem is when she tries to refinish the coffee table at the same time.
A few months ago when my girlfriend was accepted to the Esthetics course at Niagara College, she very casually and gently asked a favour a boyfriend rarely get to hear, let alone make a decision on.
“When I’m in school, can I practice things on you?”
What she didn’t know was that I’d thought about this particular question already. I knew she’d have to practice with the powders paints and glosses, but that would be a small sacrifice to pay for getting to enjoy the other lessons she’d be learning. Most importantly, all the massages she’d have to try out. I knew that if I was going to get Swedished, I’d have to get fabuloused a few times too.
“Anything you need for school you can use me for practice, BUT NO waxing.“
Apparently that point wasn’t an issue. Perhaps she was taken aback by me readily agreeing to be plastered with female war paint on a semi-regular basis, which some would consider emasculating. I just considered it a down payment. An agreement was reached, and moved on.
Fast forward to Monday, where as we watched television I got my first oral notice of payment due:
“Can I paint your toenails?”
Without hesitation I replied “Sure! So long as we can keep the TV on we’re good to go!” And in a flash everything was ready to go. The kit was out, the foam thing that keeps your toes separated was flailing my foot flanges apart, and the final question was asked:
“What colour do you want them?”
After some quick deliberation I decided on blue. I was corrected to “Cobalt Blue,” which to me is just “darker Blue.” The colour wheel and how many colours are on it is a debate for another day. (It’s 8, then darker or lighter.) But the choice was made, and the painting began (while my cat decided to keep close to see what was happening.)
After about 10 minutes of painting, dabbing, correcting and touch-ups the process was complete. I was no worse for the wear, and thus the process of war-paint removal began. This is another part I am glad I don’t have to deal with: the number of chemicals women have to use to clean up after battle. Cotton pads and Q-Tips were soaked in the nose burning goodness that is nail polish remover and the cleansing began.
Not two minutes into the process, disaster struck. For those that are unaware, my girlfriend and I live in what I would consider a cozy one-bedroom apartment. And anyone who’s ever gone house/apartment hunting knows the word “cozy” means “the first word out of your mouth when you walk in is small.” It’s perfect for us and what we’re doing, but it can at times feel a little cramped. For this process I was sitting on our couch with my feet on a pillow in my girlfriend’s lap. She was sitting on the coffee table, which gave her quick access to the equipment/power tools needed to handle the task at hand. That also meant she was close to the nail polish remover…
…which she accidentally knocked over, spilling half the bottle on top of the coffee table. The clock started.
I’ve been witness to people reacting without thinking, whether it’s an emergency or a time-sensitive matter. I had never taken myself to be one of those people. And yet, as the bottle hit the top of the table I found myself halfway to the kitchen, flailed half painted/half removed toenails and all, grabbing the entire roll of paper towels and diving back into the living room to sop up the mess.
My girlfriend had miraculously kept the remover from spilling on the carpet, and had already removed everything on the table that had been affected by the spill. I mashed handful after handful of paper towel into the puddle and quickly watched as it all disappeared. We had acted incredibly quickly, but as anyone who has ever spilled nail polish remover anywhere will tell you, incredibly quickly is still not quickly enough.
As I returned from the garbage I noticed a light opaque haze that had formed where the remover has rested. It had sat long enough to take a layer of stain out of the wood. My girlfriend was despondent. I somehow re-accessed the part of my brain that could do appropriate things quickly. (I have yet to find it since.)
I ran back to the kitchen, grabbed the brown polish and returned to the scene of the crime. After five minutes of applying and polishing, the table was as good as new. Well, as good as a coffee table with two scratchy cats can be. I threw out the last of the used paper towel (which amounted to almost the entire roll, sorry environment) and returned to my seat, where my girlfriend finished the removal of the polish.
That’s the story of getting my nails done. One deposit has been made in the makeup bank, and I look forward to withdrawing a massage sometime in the near future. I apparently also look forward to a base coat next time I get my nails done, as I’ve been told it helps when it’s time to take the polish off. For now I’ll continue existing with toes that appear to be getting low circulation. At least, I hope it appears that way. relationships