Random Memory
I'm looking forward to doing some brewing this Friday. As part of the the anticipation I remembered the bag of paint and brushes I'd gotten to paint the large clear glass bottles I sometimes use for bottling beer. I began to regret the fact that I did not yet paint any of them and I began to think about WHY I was so eager to paint beer bottles.
I went through a period in college where I wore nail polish. (Denim blue to be exact). It's a shame I was taken, because it caused an immediate uptick in the number of women interested in me. One woman explained it as evidence I would "get" makeup and fashion headaches and was thus more likely to understand and empathize with women.
My Mother was convinced people would think I was gay. As far as I know no one did. I had a lot of blue in my wardrobe so it matched. The few times I was asked about it I just said I was trying to cure myself of nail biting. Amusingly enough, I was pretty much cured of my nail biting by the time I stopped wearing the polish, but this had not been my actual goal.
What was my actual goal?
I thought it looked nice and I missed the detailed work of painting the car and robot models I built as a kid. Painting my own nails was the closest I could get with the time and space constraints of college life. It was this thin tendril, this memory of how much I enjoyed painting small things that had gotten me so eager to paint beer bottles, instead of just replacing them with brown ones.
I went through a period in college where I wore nail polish. (Denim blue to be exact). It's a shame I was taken, because it caused an immediate uptick in the number of women interested in me. One woman explained it as evidence I would "get" makeup and fashion headaches and was thus more likely to understand and empathize with women.
My Mother was convinced people would think I was gay. As far as I know no one did. I had a lot of blue in my wardrobe so it matched. The few times I was asked about it I just said I was trying to cure myself of nail biting. Amusingly enough, I was pretty much cured of my nail biting by the time I stopped wearing the polish, but this had not been my actual goal.
What was my actual goal?
I thought it looked nice and I missed the detailed work of painting the car and robot models I built as a kid. Painting my own nails was the closest I could get with the time and space constraints of college life. It was this thin tendril, this memory of how much I enjoyed painting small things that had gotten me so eager to paint beer bottles, instead of just replacing them with brown ones.