Blue toenail polish

 Let it be known: few aspects of me remain constant. Movement is a friend to me and it has proven it time and time again. There was one thing about me that never changed: I liked my toenails painted. No matter the season, no matter the color. I liked my toenails painted. One evening, I took a bath, post-removing the remnants of nail polish from my feet. Staring across the miles of legs I've managed to grow (almost reluctantly), there they were. My bare naked feet. They appeared stripped. Obscene. Unknown. Dormant. Ghostly. Hardly, did I even identify with the sight of them. No, those weren't mine. But- this feeling disturbed me. How can I only admire a part of myself when it has been altered? Can I even say these feet belong to me when they've got some chemically-compounded, fluorescent bullshit smeared across them? I'm just a customer to some drug-store bottle, with this crud perfectly pedicured on top of me. How can adding ten strokes of a brush to every toe I've got make me love myself so much more than the latter option? There I sat. The water was lukewarm now. I decided that I would not paint my toenails again until I learned to adore the sight of my colorless feet. My toes would not see color until I looked down and smiled at my two pillars of salt. And that was that. 

You have to force yourself to face yourself. Even with something as stupid as this. Really, it is no big fuss that I only enjoyed looking at my toes when they've got a nice blue coat on. But I wasn't born that way. I've always thought myself to be a natural woman. Put some black around my eyes and I will look heavenly but I won't feel like the woman I woke up as. That bugs. That digs at me. For whatever reason. I don't have the energy to unpack that just yet...

That bathtub resolution was birthed many moons ago.

In the evenings lately, I've been practicing yoga. I figure it is good for me to live in my body since I have one. When I stretch, I like to take my socks off so my feet can really plant into the ground when necessary. Today, in ragdoll pose, I gazed down at my feet. And I thought, "I really like you guys. Thanks for everything you do. I go everywhere because of you. I love you." and then I realized that I learned to love them as they were delivered to me. As they are. 

This entire weirdly stubborn toenail polish fiasco made me curious about the nature of love. I don't believe it necessary to love everything only when it comes as it is born. I believe I love myself despite the fact that I've morphed into many things. I love my hair but I also change it quite a bit. I love my friends even when they move away and grow into different, more progressed versions of themselves. I love my car even when it breaks. I love my eyes even when they are crying. And I love my feet now, without nail polish. When you love something, especially in its purest, most original state, that is true love. But loving something, even after it has changed, undergone metamorphosis, maybe that is a heightened version of love. Maybe all love is equal. Maybe one day someone will love me just as I come and with each round of change I flow through. That will be real.

I painted my toenails blue today. For the first time in months. The color of my ache. The color of change. My favorite jeans. My best sweater. My first memory. What it's like to hear me speak. What it's like to kiss me. It lingers in a blue hue and always will. And if my color changes, I'll still love myself. That is what I've been trying to say this whole time.