We had a family wedding last week. In between events I was sitting at my sister Sandy’s house and we were looking at each other’s toes. Hers were painted and shaped and petite. Mine were chipped and crooked and huge. “You got Dad’s toes,” she said. “i’m sorry.”
I laughed because she was right. My toes are my father’s toes.
I never get pedicures unless it’s an event with five other girls.
I never paint my nails because I’m bad at it and I have no patience.
I never clip my toenails, instead I rip them off because I forget about them and then suddenly see how long they’ve gotten and get embarrassed.
I don’t shave them either which my sister Katy thinks is disgusting. You have to shave your toes, apparently. My legs are hard enough. Imagine that little toe.
Come to think of it, I may be the worst maintained sister of the group. I shower. I do that. I wear deodorant and sometimes earrings. But that’s about it as far as personal grooming goes. No wonder every six to eight months one of my sisters or my niece declare an intervention on me and either a. make me go get my eyebrows waxed because I look like a bear b. make me get my hair cut because I look like a lion or c.take me shopping because I’m wearing a shirt from 1998.
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