I stabbed my new boss.
Okay, maybe “stabbed” is too extreme of a word, but I went to meet with the dean from another college who I’m teaching a class for this fall, and when I shook her hand, I inadvertently stabbed the side of her hand with a freakishly long pinkie nail. The kind of long fingernail that was beginning to remind me of the coke nail that hippie science teacher in junior high sported. Great, not only did my untended fingernails make me look like a coke whore (which, I’ve never tried coke . . . although I suppose it would’ve made me more productive in grad school), but they were also a safety hazard.
Without passing go, I went straight to the nail salon for a mani and pedi.
I sat down and Helga slipped off my flip flops and lowered my feet into warm, bubbly water. She got to work . . . and so did I. I pulled out some 19th-century historical research for my dissertation and began to read away.
When I settled back into my car when my appointment was done, I was unbelievably psyched about all the work I got done during my pedicure.
That is just . . . WRONG.
(I’ve been working waaaaay to much. And so I think I’ll blow off working for the rest of the afternoon and hit happy hour with friends instead. )