Yes, I do. It’s a terrible, disgusting habit. I’ve done it for years.
It used to be that I chewed my nails to calm my nerves. It never worked. Just left me with raggedy, scary looking nails that I then felt like I had to hide. More anxiety. More chewed nails.
Seriously, I looked like a nervous little squirrel. Dashing back and forth, chewing on stuff. Ew.
Lets just say I never wasted money on manicures.
But about a month ago, I had this strange sensation while I was typing. Like someone was tapping back from the keyboard. I looked down and realized that — shock — I had fingernails! After years of fighting it, tricking myself, lecturing myself, and occasionally trying to gain some control over my nerves, for some reason I had just… stopped.
I’d like to say permanently.
I’d like to say that I do my nails nicely now, like I’ve always wanted to.
I’d like to say that my nails are long, elegant, and generally stylish like the rest of my ensemble.
(Actually, I’d like to say my ensemble is stylish in the first place. No, wait! Paint spatters and distressed jeans are totally in this year, right? Spit up isn’t that far off, and my jeans are definitely in distress. I’m good.)
But I can’t.
Because I started chewing them again.
I know. Yuck.
But yuck is better than leaving angry red gashes on my baby’s head. And let’s face it, nail clippers are an endangered species in this house.
The kids will be big eventually, and then I can grow my nails to my heart’s content, without fear of scarring my child for life.
Although I guess if I get Butterfly again, she can always tell her friends in preschool that she’s secretly a ninja-pirate who rides velociraptors to save the world from evil unicorns of doom. Scars are good for that kind of thing.
…Nah. I’ll just keep chewing.