I sit and stare at my fingernails, well the broken stubs that were once fingernails that have now shattered into white crescents scattered across the weekend. As I stare, I try not to bite and even them off as I once would have when I was six. That was the year my aunt gave me an Alvin and the Chipmunks album when I stopped biting my nails. The urge still overtakes me as an adult, whenever I'm uncertain or nervous and I have been known to nibble a bit on my right thumbnail from time to time. It goes hand-in-hand with the lower lip biting.
But, these broken nails come honestly from sweat and work. Not the endless worry that I used to have. Over the past two years I've become braver and more at ease with myself - or is it that I just don't give a ... ah well, you know - I don't care as much anymore what people think. I'm comfortable in my skin for a change. Hell, I guess that's what it is because...well, that not caring thing again.
There are still worries...but they are better, more precious worries - like wanting the best for family and friends, doing a good job, things like that. Productive stuff. Most of the time....until the monsters visit at 3:00 a.m.