I have gruesome nails. It is true. It is one of the least feminine things about me. They are short, uneven, cracked and hideous. And it drives my guido crazy. He begs me to paint them, get fake ones, DO SOMETHING. Anything. He doesn't understand that it would be a waste of time and money. I would wreck those fancy nails in less than a day.

Most people who delight in the idea of reincarnation love to imagine the fascinating, powerful, royal or even scandalous person they might have been in the past. If the whole reincarnation thing turns out, I was probably the washerwoman cleaning the floors in your palace. If you think about it, I'm moving up. What the hell happened to you, yo' highness, intern bitch?

But I digress. The reason I am thinking about my utilitarian fingernails is due to the sweaty, swampy, long-ass train ride I had this morning. I am standing next to this 6'4 smooth operator who couldn't break a sweat if he tried--he's working his well-pressed collar and perfectly knotted tie, close-cropped hair and honey-brown eyes. What I am trying to say is that he is Fine.

I'm checking out his watch (shutup), because I know I am late, and I notice his nails. The skin is smooth and unblemished, the nails are buffed to a healthy, almost iridescent glow. So pretty. So even. So clean. So, sigh.

I am not big on commitments but I may have to start committing to manicures. I just hope I don't get the flesh-eating bacteria because some Wall Street A-Rod made me all jealous and lecherous (try that one on sometime) on a random Wednesday morning commute.