What I forgot to mention in yesterday's post about the cats is that after their shenanigans, I kept telling them they were full of beans. “You’re full of beans!” I’d announce as they scampered around the house, “Full of beans!”
This was rooted in an interaction last week with the toddler, T, who stays here occasionally. She loves green beans with an impressive passion, so they are often served with our meals. She can say the word, of course, because it is important that she be able to for her happiness.
The other night she said “beans!” to ask for more and I said “beans!” and waved my arms like a Muppet. So then she said “beans!” again and waved her arms. I replied with the same. We did this about a dozen times. Then she ate her beans. Since then, we all wave our arms in the air like Muppets when we say beans. It’s a house requirement.
What she mostly knows me for, though, is my orange fingernails. One day I spent several minutes showing her that my fingernails were orange and also my sneakers were orange. “Orange fingernails, orange sneakers,” I’d say as I showed her each.
She can’t say “orange” yet. It’s a tough word. But when she sees me she says “uh!” and points at my hands. I say, “yes, orange fingernails” and waggle them at her. This makes her happy.
They make me happy, too. That’s why I have them. On a gray day like today, it’s very cheerful to see the orange fluttering around as I type.
They have gotten too long, with a big blank gap between cuticle and color, and they’ve started to interfere with my typing. So, soon, despite my impoverished state, I will plunk down fifty bucks plus tip to get a fill and repaint.
Past boyfriends have sneered and called this decadent. This just meant that they didn’t really understand me. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time and I know what I need.
That orange paint is essential to my happiness. It’s part of my identity. T gets it.