https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DFQQKslVSV0
Month: July 2017
Depraved Indifference
How do we get here?
How do we get to the place where three teenage boys are able to not only stand by and watch as a person is pleading for help as they drown, not picking up the phone to call police…but laughing and seemingly enjoy it as if it were a sporting event?
In some states, evidently not Florida, the teens could be charged with a crime of Depraved Indifference.
Depraved: Morally Corrupt; wicked
Indifference: Lack of interest, concern, or sympathy; unimportance
My Facebook feed was devoid of this article today. It was something I found reference to and then had to go look up myself.
Making sure it wasn’t fake news or anything.
So, how do we get here? How does our Facebook feed become riddled with political garbage, fake news, the latest fitness craze, or peace and sparkles?
What excuses do we make when we scroll past these stories in order to make ourselves “feel better”?
· “They must have a terrible home life”
· “Maybe they are gang members”
· “Perhaps they’ve watched too many violent video games or movies”
Contrast this event with an event I watched in a courtroom on the same day.
Courtrooms are typically civilized places, with a set of rules, an order of things, and a professional level of respect and camaraderie among the lawyers, even those on opposing sides.
As lawyers do, each side approached their respective tables, opening briefcases, referring to notes, leaning over and whispering to their clients and each other, preparing for the hearing and awaiting the Judge’s appearance in the courtroom.
Doing what it is lawyers do.
As all were getting settled in, the lone female lawyer, a woman of approximately 40 years old, reached into her briefcase and drew out packets of documents, informing the lawyers on the other side of the table that these were copies of the pleadings [arguments, declarations, etc. filed for the Judge to read] she had filed the night before.
She was doing what I have seen lawyers do countless of times – basically extending them a professional courtesy by providing copies of documents that had been filed late – in case they had not yet reviewed them.
[It should be noted that the other side had filed late documents the night before, as well.]
Context:
This has been a contentious case. The clients on the respective sides are warring. The maneuvers being used are fast and hard to keep up with.
This is nothing new in my world. Contention is often the name of the game, but does not typically preclude the normal professional courtesies extended to the parties involved.
Out of the blue, the man in the tan suit, a man in the range of 65 to 70 years of age, started yelling at this woman. Red faced, angry, literally out of control.
“I WILL NOT ACCEPT THESE DOCUMENTS!”
“YOU ARE UNETHICAL!”
“YOU ARE PULLING ONE ‘FAST ONE’ AFTER ANOTHER!”
The woman stepped back. She said nothing.
Everyone stopped. The handful of us in the gallery. The young lawyer co-chairing the “side” this woman was on. And three additional men on the side of the man with the tan suit. And then with his face turning purple and spittle being flung from his lips, the coup d’état:
“YOU ARE A CHILD IN EVERY RESPECT.”
I looked at my client, a simple guy, probably the same age of the man in the tan suit. His hand is on the back of the next bench, he’s perched on the edge of his seat, he is clearly ready to get up and address the situation.
But what about the males who were sitting on the side of the man with the tan suit?
Where were they?
I can tell you: their heads were down, the words on the papers in front of them suddenly very important, eyes averted so as not to be a witness to this debacle.
Three grown ass men were silent as their colleague dressed down and berated a female lawyer in a truly unbelievable way.
Before my client could get up, the young female lawyer waited a moment.
In a quiet, but strong voice she told him:
“Sir, I am not a child. I am a 42 year-old woman. I have never been treated in this way before. I completely respect your experience and the work you are doing for your client. It is people like you who I look up to. But I won’t be spoken to in this way.”
Would you have had the strength of character or the presence of mind to respond in this way? I’m not sure I would have.
He could not control himself. The man in the tan suit had to get in one more dig:
“I DO NOT KNOW WHY YOU HAVE TO MAKE THIS SO DIFFICULT!”
And with her calm voice she told him:
“Sir, I grew up in a refugee camp. I can tell you, that is difficult. This? This is just the law. This is just work. I can assure you, this is not difficult.”
And with that she sat down, awaited the Judge to arrive, and over the course of the haring, was able to make her arguments as well as any of the more experienced guys at the table.
So, what do the two situations have in common? Three boys watching silently as a disabled man drowns? Three grown, educated men watching as a young woman is being dressed down and humiliated in a professional setting?
I can tell you:
Depraved Indifference
If three grown, educated, professional men are too weak to ask their colleague to tone it down; if three grown, educated, professional men are so weak that they have to avert their eyes so as not to witness the altercation; if three grown, educated, professional men are so weak that they are incapable of standing up for what is right and not allowing said colleague to dishonorably treat another colleague (never mind dishonorably treat a woman!), then who is setting the standard for men to be men? Who is leading the next generation? Who is standing up to ensure that evil is banished from our society?
Evil flourishes right out in the open when “good men” do nothing. And I can assure you, evil does not always look like gang members, or ISIS, or airplanes being flown into buildings.
It does not have to take a significant or criminal event to witness evil. It walks around and is present every day in our lives.
Sometimes it is even dressed up as a nice looking educated man in a tan suit.
See Something? Say Something…and Be the change you want to see in the world.
Forgiveness – Rules to Live By
I’ve grappled a lot with the idea of forgiveness. What is it, exactly? When is it appropriate? When is it not?
Does forgiveness depend on the transgression?
For example, I was sitting quietly in my window seat on the airplane yesterday morning when my middle-seatmate tossed his laptop bag into his seat as he boarded…except he missed and hit me in the arm instead. He said he was sorry. Pretty innocuous.
What about a sibling who steals your identity and uses it multiple times to steal money out of your bank account, open credit cards they never intend to pay for, and even commit crimes in your name?
On the other end of the spectrum, do you forgive the person who kills your loved one because they were driving drunk?
Transgressions vary wildly in life, don’t they?
So, does the process of forgiveness look the same no matter the offense? It seems to me that many think it does – that no matter the transgression, if you don’t “forgive”, somehow you are the bad person…or that you will be struck down from Karma or God’s wrath.
I call bullshit on this notion.
If you’re a religious person, forgiveness is mentioned multiple times in the bible, seemingly telling its readers to forgive, lest you not be forgiven yourself. No real explanation there. Just a directive.
But life isn’t really that simple, is it?
And when it comes to those that share DNA, do the rules change?
I’m pretty sure that very nice, well-intentioned people believe that DNA does change the rule.
In my case, I get this one all the time:
“But, she’s your mother!”
Anyone else feeling me out there on this one or something similar?
First let me literally laugh my ass off here. And then, as I do, let me digress: if someone is inserting a person’s TITLE in that phrase, as if their transgressions should be OKAY because they have a “title” …. then aren’t they making your point? I mean…shouldn’t the people who are SUPPOSED TO LOVE US not TRANSGRESS AGAINST US? And then if they do, why is it up to us to forgive without anything coming from the other person?
Sigh.
So, for all my confused readers out there, I want to share with you a definition of forgiveness that is so beautiful, that makes so much sense, that it made me weep the first time I heard it (1). I had to go back and listen and look it up and all I could say was:
This. This makes so much sense.
I have it posted in various places so that I can refer to it as I need to. Because let’s face it, I need to on occasion. After all, we all have opportunities to make proper reparations!
But most days, I have to compare this list to my irrational feelings. Because, well, it would just be easier not to make waves and “keep the peace”, wouldn’t it? It would be easier “just to forgive.”
Want to know the steps to forgiveness? Then, remember the 4 R’s!
1. REMORSE
The person tells you they are sorry. They express true remorse. Perhaps this is an expression of words. Perhaps this is an expression of deeds. Perhaps the remorse is communicated in writing. But the expression is overt and is true. Skeptical, are you? Go to step 2, and discern if the person is:
2. TAKING RESPONSIBILITY
In other words, are they not only saying they are sorry, but is this person also owning their own shit? Are they spelling out what they did? Are they communicating their role in the situation? This responsibility is not a result of appeasing your anger or hurt. This responsibility is genuine and real. Still skeptical? Go to step 3:
3. REPAIR
Is the person making steps to repair the situation? For example, if you’ve been spoken about poorly in a circle of friends or loved ones, has the person gone to those people and gone back to Step #2 and taking responsibility for the lies they’ve told? If the problem is between the two of you, have they fixed the problem and made a plan of repair?
If you have steps 1 through 3, then you’re well on your way, aren’t you? But forgiveness isn’t always as easy as forgiving the guy that clocks you with his bag on the airplane.
Sometimes forgiveness takes time, doesn’t it?
And that’s where step 4 comes in:
4. No Repeat
The behavior is not repeated. Over hours, days, months, and years…the person’s actions show, consistently, that they are sorry. Why? Because they don’t do it again.
Forgiveness can be confusing. It certainly can be a messy business, as I will communicate in coming posts.
But, these 4 simple rules – they are something to live by. They are something to measure against. And, they work.
And in the event that the 4 stages of forgiveness do not present themselves to you, take heart, you don’t have to stay bitter, angry, or sad.
You can let go.
Which isn’t the same as forgiveness.
But, it’s actually better. It’s better because it helps you fly. It helps you see clearly. It helps you love yourself no matter what happens against you.
I can’t wait to share that message with you, too.
(1) Dr. Laura Schlesinger – www.drlaura.com
No Snowflakes Allowed
*Warning: Profane Language Ahead*
I sauntered into his classroom that cold, Monday morning 15 minutes late. I knew I was in for it. You didn’t show up to O’Shaughnessy’s Intermediate Accounting class late. If you did, you had voluntarily entered the danger zone.
Intermediate Accounting. It is the class that makes or breaks most accountant wannabes. If you can pass Intermediate Accounting, you will likely stride through the rest of your major. If you can’t get through Intermediate Accounting, well, you better start choosing a different one.
And while Intermediate Accounting at most universities have a similar stigma, O’Shaughnessy was a legend.
‘O’Shaughn’ had been a professor for more than 32 years by the time I walked into his classroom that morning in 1996. And he was a legend, not just on our small Central Washington University campus, but throughout much of the Pacific Northwest. If you held an accounting degree from CWU, then your interview would include the question:
“Did you take Intermediate from O’Shaughnessy?”
If you answered “no” (because you took the class in the summer to get away from having to take it from him), I guarantee that your application would be significantly discounted.
Even ten years after I had graduated and returned to the Pacific Northwest, I was still getting that question at each of the accounting firms I applied to.
But, like I do, I digress.
I walked into his classroom late that day…. because I was failing and my ass needed to be in that seat.
The girl who had never received a grade lower than a B in the entirety of her lifetime, including college, was failing Intermediate Accounting…. we’re talking a BIG FAT ‘F’.
I will tell you that one of the reasons that I was failing was because at that point in my illustrious educational career, I had never learned to study. Things came pretty easily for me, I could write papers, turn in my homework, understand what I was being taught and apply it in whatever way a teacher or professor asked. Accounting was a whole new language and I was at that time, unprepared for the challenge.
The Second Reason I was failing was due to a new boyfriend I had, you know the kind who leaves your head in the clouds….
And the Third Reason I was failing was due to O’Shaughnessy’s grading system:
- Get the answer right: +3 points
- Skip the answer (leave it blank): 0 points (i.e. no harm/no foul)
- Get the answer wrong: -2 points
His philosophy: Know your shit. Know when you don’t know your shit. Get penalized for thinking you know your shit but you really don’t.
My friends, if that isn’t a life lesson, then I don’t know what is.
But when you’re 21 years old, you don’t see it that way.
So, to say the least, I was struggling. Life was truly “unfair.” I met my best friends (Suzanne Brandt, Lori Yount, Kevin Dahlen, Mike Voie, and Tim Merritt) as a result of our need to huddle together and study in group cry in groups drink in groups to survive. We all agreed that this was totally unfair. Didn’t he understand that we had other coursework to manage? Didn’t he understand that we needed to have a LIFE?! Didn’t he know that his grading system was bullshit and had no bearing on the “real world?!”
Fast forward to that Monday morning. Monday, being the operative word in this situation. Monday meant I had stayed the weekend with that boyfriend (who eventually made an honest woman out of me!) and drove the three hours from his place back to school at the crack of dawn.
But, I didn’t make it on time get out of bed on time.
“LeMay…you’re late.” No one went by their first names in his classroom. We were only known by our last names. Yount, Brandt, Dahlen, Voie, and Merritt kept their heads down and pencils up.
There was no one to save me for the coming onslaught.
Now, to understand the rest of the story you have to picture this:
A man in his mid-50’s, average height, fairly thin, graying hair – with a loud, bellowing voice who commanded attention. Imagine him with an imaginary basketball between his legs, basically walking in a greatly exaggerated bow-legged fashion back and forth across the front of his classroom.
“LeMay, you walk into my classroom 15 minutes late, walking like this [insert exaggerated walk here]…it {ahem, the sex} must have been damn good.”
You could have heard a pin drop.
Of course, I wasn’t walking like I had only done one thing the entire weekend. Of course, his comment was wholly inappropriate. Of course, I could have died of embarrassment on the spot.
With everyone in the room at the same time stunned and trying to suppress their laughter, I assessed my choices:
- Turn around in embarrassment and walk out.
- Turn around in embarrassment and walk out and make a complaint to the school.
- Do nothing and sit.
- Give a little shit back to him.
I chose #4.
“It sure as hell was”, I retorted.
He laughed. The class laughed. And on we went with the day’s lesson.
I’m not sure that O’Shaughnessy’s brand of teaching would even be allowed today on America’s college campuses. And, that’s too bad.
Because I learned a lot more than intermediate accounting from him:
~ I learned that knowing when you don’t know your shit is more important than when you do.
~ I learned that when times get tough, you need friends.
~ I learned that you can either run from adversity or face it. Only one of those choices makes you stronger.
~ I learned to be a damn good accountant. I walked out of his class (and the worst final of my life) with a B-, thank you very much!
Strawberry Granddaughter
A topic on my mind lately is one that I call “titles”. It is a topic I have explored a lot with my husband and one that has dictated a number of important decisions in our life. We have commented more than once that it seems to us that folks often look at the “title” of the person, typically based on their lineage or “status” in the family, without giving equal look to the actions of the person.
It is always surprising to me what people get away with simply due to their title in the family. But if said person behaved in such a way with simply the title of “friend” or “acquaintance,” then suddenly the behavior would no longer be acceptable.
Why is that?
As I was getting ready for work this morning and I went to check my hair one last time, I smiled as I saw this on my bathroom counter:
This, my friends, is one of the most precious gifts I ever received. You see, this is a handkerchief, a very old handkerchief, embroidered with two simple wedding bands. It was given to me on my wedding day by grandmother.
Only, she wasn’t.
Zelma Penn married my grandfather when I was 7 or 8 years old. Before then, we didn’t see much of my grandfather. He was a raging alcoholic, spent most of his time at work or in a bar, and didn’t come around much., except to introduce us to his latest girlfriend.
Zelma, or “Jerri” as she was introduced to us, changed all that. She was a woman from the deep south. She had a real southern drawl, a true gift for cooking, and always had an eye on beauty and personal upkeep.
Most importantly, she turned out not to be just one of another of my Papa’s girlfriends. She ended up being a keeper.
Now, given his background and the fact that the two of them probably met at a bar, it is likely that few in the family saw this woman as someone who was “worthy” of joining the family or the union as one that would last.
Lasted, it did. Until 2001 when my Papa died.
But, back to the story.
Jerri liked to tell me about the first time she met me. As my Papa drove her to our place, he of course “bragged” about his only two grand kids, my brother and me. Regaling her about how “smart” I was and how “athletically” talented my brother was. And then he told her:
“Tiff isn’t the prettiest little thing. But, honey, I sure do love her.” [she ALWAYS said this part with great emphasis!]
Both of those things were the truth. I wasn’t the cutest girl on the block. AND my Papa loved me something fierce.
And so did Jerri.
From the point that my Papa married Jerri, there was hardly a weekend that we didn’t see them. The door to their home was literally always open, I don’t believe we ever knocked. She cooked, she sewed, she gardened, and she cooked some more. She couldn’t cure his alcoholism, but at least her efforts meant he spent more time at home and less time at the bar.
They showed up at every family holiday event.
But to me, it was so much more than that.
You see, Jerri had grandchildren of her own. Two boys and a girl in Alabama. She’d talk and she’d brag on them, sure.
But she told me that I was her Strawberry Granddaughter.
She called me this because I loved strawberries. From my Strawberry Shortcake lunch box to my favorite strawberry ice cream. She even had a special strawberry cake recipe that she made for me each year, even into adulthood.
This woman encouraged my Papa to build us a tree house (which turned out to be one slab of wood in the big tree out back). She put a huge pillow up there and let me spend hours reading my books. Bringing me cantaloupe for breakfast (salted just right) and peanut butter and (strawberry) jelly sandwiches for lunch. In the afternoons there would always be fresh strawberries, or even better, strawberry ice cream for dessert.
I thought she did so many things “backwards”. She hung the clothes on the line to dry even though she had a clothes dryer in the house (why would I waste all that electricity?). She would buy hamburgers from Burger King plain and bring them home and put all the veggies and condiments on the burgers herself (they just taste better with garden fresh vegetables!). She shopped at the goodwill at least every week (why waste your money on something new?). And, she composted, whistled, and walked several miles each day to keep “trim and fit.”
She taught me to sew and one summer she and I made several cute outfits that I felt so pretty in. She could hem, alter, or make anything!
And she sunbathed.
In her bikini.
I wish I had a picture of her in her bikini, with her tan and wrinkled skin laying out in the backyard on one of the old plastic lounge chairs while my Papa tended his magnificent garden with the Dodger game on the radio and I read another Trixie Belden mystery up in the tree.
She had absolutely no qualms about laying out in her bikini. It is one of my earliest memories of someone being sure of themselves without worrying about what “others” thought. In fact, I just found this picture of her in a halter top (age 65 to 70?), looking radiant and happy.
In this picture, I see the picture of love. The kind of love I had not ever experienced before. The kind of love that loves you, even when they have no obligation to you whatsoever.
At night, she’d put bubbles in a bath and let me soak for as long as I wanted and then we’d snuggle into her bed (after she verified my feet were clean) and watch “Matlock”, “The Golden Girls” and our favorite, “Murder, She Wrote.” We would laugh or try and figure out “whodunit” and then off I’d go to “my” purple bedroom where I could stay up as late as I wanted and sleep in until I woke up.
As I got older, she took care of my two young cousins who came after me. She took on so much for those kids, becoming their primary caregiver for much of their pre-school lives.
But still, she always had time for her “strawberry granddaughter.”
And later, she loved up my husband and insisted on taking care of our little Jake one day a week just to have more time with him. I love this picture mostly because I can’t help but notice her perfect nails and toes:
On our wedding day, she gave me her handkerchief to wear as my “something old”. You see, this wasn’t just any handkerchief. This one was over 50 years old and had been given to her on her first wedding day.
And after all this time, without any blood between us, she didn’t give that handkerchief to her only “real” granddaughter.
She gave it to me.
If that isn’t love, then I don’t know what is.
From that first day and that no-so-pretty little girl, to the gangly awkward teenager, to the young woman who moved away from everybody she knew – she loved me when she didn’t have to.
After all, she didn’t have the official title.
And I regret that. I regret that I never gave her the title of “Granny”, as she liked to be called. She was Jerri until the last day I saw her.
Only, I didn’t know it would be the last day I saw her.
You see, at the end of her life, I had to choose. Scratch that, I made a choice. A choice between someone with a familial “title” and Jerri. My beloved grandmother. I chose the title, hoping love and acceptance and a sense of family would be there. Thinking it was the “right” thing to do.
And I forgot about someone who had done the job, who had been there, and who had loved me, my husband, our son… all of us, even though she didn’t have to.
The choice I made was the wrong one. And before I could ask for forgiveness, find the courage to look up her phone number, to better articulate why I felt I had no other choice, she quietly moved back to Alabama and died not too long after in her sleep.
It took me a few more years to understand titles and how unimportant they really are.
Who in your life is loving you when they don’t have to? Who is doing the work even without the title?
Call them and tell them you notice. That you appreciate them. And that their love has made a difference in your life.
The Girl with the Purple Toes
As I do fairly frequently during our short-lived summers, I peeked my head into our local “nail spa” in hopes that there would be an empty chair waiting for my bi-weekly pedicure. This particular place is a replica of so many other similar establishments. A dozen or more pedicure chairs lined up along one wall, a few manicure tables filling the open space, and two “waxing rooms” – private areas where all manner of hair removal services are carried out. Staffed by a crew of Asian men and women, likely of Vietnamese, Thai, or Philippine ancestry.
“Pick your colah” I am instructed by the Asian woman in charge. I do. Bright red. It is after all, the 4th of July.
A group of ladies, I later learn family members together for an annual reunion, have just been seated in their chairs. They are handed a menu.
“What kind of pedicure you like?” the manicurists ask. Before these women are able to ponder the “pedicure menu” the manicurists press on – “We do the deluxe. The deluxe is sooooo nice. Make your feet feel real good.” And just like that, deluxe, it is. Within a minute the establishment just made an extra $60 (4 sets of feet times $15 price increase for each) and the ladies oohed and aahed about the prospect of the hot wax that was part of the “deal.”
I can’t help but chuckle. As a successful business owner myself, I have to admire the ability of the workers in these establishments to “upsell.” They are constantly upselling services. Effortlessly. With a smile.
I always find myself wishing I could be better at that.
But, I digress.
As I am directed by a beautiful girl to a massage/pedicure/lounge chair, with warm soapy water bubbling in the bowl, I walk by a girl with purple toes.
Ah, purple toes. Maybe one day I will find the courage to paint my toes purple. But in a world of lawyers and courtrooms and professional meetings, I typically choose a conservative red hue or if I’m feeling feisty, hot pink.
It wasn’t purple so much, as it was lavender…with sparkles in the lacquer. Quite lovely. Tasteful. Perhaps my mind could be swayed, perhaps I could go out on a limb one day?
Before I could get too far down the road of changing my nail color, I realized that she too, was in the midst of an “upsell” moment. Only this time, the manicurist wasn’t winning.
“But the gel is so nice. It last longer.”
Gel nails. All the rage lately, great for durability and long-lasting color. But not so great if you want a simple polish change or aren’t planning to visit the nail spa every two weeks to have them maintained.
The girl with the purple toes was explaining all of this to the manicurist. She clearly was there for a special occasion and had no intention of returning for regular nail maintenance.
“You no want the gel? How come you no want the gel?”
And that’s when I saw it.
First, multiple patrons are staring at this young woman who is trying to make this all-important decision.
Second, her manicurist and another are smiling at each other, almost mocking the girl.
And the girl with the purple toes. She was paralyzed. Her mouth partially agape.
I could see it all over her face.
- “Will I hurt their feelings if I say ‘no’?”
- “Will they talk about me while I finish out the rest of my services?”
- “I really just want a regular manicure, but maybe the gel IS better?”
- “What if they get mad?”
She did not know what choice to make.
Or, did she?
The girl with the purple toes had already made up her mind. She knew that she just needed purple polish for the upcoming event. She knew that she didn’t have the time and/or the funds for gel polish upkeep. She knew that she wanted to get out of there and on with the rest of the day.
But she was so worried about what “they” were thinking (who is “They”, anyway?!) that she forgot about what was practical and economical and made sense for her and succumbed to the gel service.
I have been exploring an idea, lately. And it is this one: how do I stop reacting emotionally, to decisions in my life? Reacting, typically, to outside forces that could be real or not?
As I have posed this question, some of the most extraordinary circumstances have presented themselves to me. Admittedly, I haven’t successfully reacted as I had wished in every scenario. But, I am getting better.
And it has made my life infinitely better and more serene.
So, what happens when we take the emotions out of most situations?
In this scenario, we are only talking about nail polish – gel or regular. This is not a life-altering decision. This will impact no one.
Or, does it?
It certainly had an impact on her. She looked defeated as she walked out of the nail salon a short time later. Not happy about enjoying a couple of hours of pampering on a beautiful sunny afternoon.
And, I can’t help but wonder….if we are unable to overcome a simple decision about gel or regular nail polish, how are we going to make bigger decisions in our lives?
What if the girl with the purple toes had let her emotions pass through her, and allowed herself to reason, instead:
- “They would like to make more money on this service. It’s not about me.”
- “They know that if they sell me this service I will be more likely to come back in two weeks to have them refreshed. In other words, making them more money. It’s not about me.”
- “I don’t even know these people. What do their thoughts or feelings have to do with my personal decision? Certainly, if they think badly about me, it’s not about me. That would be on them.”
And there it is. “Me.” It’s all about us, isn’t it?
How we “feel”…how we think others will perceive us…the stroking of our proverbial egos.
I’m finding that the first and most important step of not reacting to situations emotionally means taking “Me” out of the equation. It has been one of the keys to unlocking clarity and joy in my life.
I love telling stories. I love learning from stories. The girl with the purple toes was my sign. A signal to let my stories and their revelations be unlocked and shared.
As I wrapped up my pedicure (yes, I wanted the Deluxe), and my $12 buff and shine manicure, “You like deluxe manicure, too? {No, thank you}”, I thought about the girl with the purple toes. I thought about how she left a small piece of herself behind in that nail spa and how so many of us do the same without even realizing it.
The glorious afternoon concluded with the excruciating but necessary eyebrow wax.
I couldn’t help but laugh out loud when my manicurist tried a last-ditch upselling opportunity: “You like lip wax, too?“
