Maintenance is something I abhor. For numerous reasons. I always question things that take too much time. Perhaps that is why I have never been super keen on being a rather maintened woman. Things like pedicures, manicures, French tips, make up and shaved legs all fall under the category of maintenance. Don’t get me wrong, as due diligence to the code I’m given, I play the part, but not the most willingly. I view it as taking my Buckeley’s cough syrup in the event of a cold – a necessary evil.
Don’t get me wrong, I like feeling feminine. I hate the amount of time, effort and expended energy it takes to have a fresh coat on my nails and then the time afterwards while the colour sets. I pondered this a couple of weeks ago when I managed to summon up enough girlie desire to paint my toe nails a bright pink colour. I got two nails in and then my friend arrived and I had to stop what I was doing and leave.
I walked around like that until the polish virtually curdled off my toes. I even went to a wedding with the toenails painted like that. It drove everyone else nuts, but I was inwardly at peace because in my mind I had my priorities straight because others came before self.
At the end of the day, I figured you’ll accept me for who I am, you odd symmetric loving freaks because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter won’t mind. In other words, it doesn’t matter. Let it go.
Now, if only we could convince my car that maintenance was not required. Easier said than done. Anyone know of a good car whisperer?
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