I did something I said I’d never do again a couple of weeks ago. I got myself one of those big manicures with the acrylic nails and all. No nail charms mind you. I’m talking about a very simple and quite short but totally fake French manicure. It was gorgeous, while it lasted. And I walked around my house when no one else was looking, arms extended, just admiring it. Beautiful, blunt, sparkling white-tipped, perfectly shaped, sophisticated fingernails.

My 9- and 10-year olds caught me in the act a few times and just rolled their eyes. C. my son, told me he thought they were “dumb”. And there may have been some truth in what he said, because with my owning and caring for five horses, the lifespan of this extravagant beauty boondoggle was about three days.

I have resigned myself to the idea that I can’t have “movie star” hands. But that said, I still feel envious when I see beautifully groomed women shopping at Whole Foods, pushing their cart around, sipping a latte, their hands dripping in diamonds (or cubic zirconia?) and punctuated in short, ivory-tipped nails.

And then thinking about it a little further, I’ve asked myself why I did that to myself? You know? Why would any sane outdoorsy woman have plastic and acrylic superglued to her fingertips and toenails? The acrylic pedicure thing doesn’t work too well with riding boots either, especially riding my young Percheron X at a rousing rising trot for miles. I’ve definitely decided that we use our toes much more in riding than we ever think about. I’m from the “toes up” school, which helps to lengthen the back of my legs and keep my heels down and back without forcing it.

I had a piano teacher once who told me about a student of his who had the long, dragon-lady nails, complete with nail charms and whatever other doo-daddeys can be affixed to those things. He said she was a passable pianist and with practice could have been quite good. But he told her the nails were going to have to go. That she couldn’t play Chopin or practice her scales with those blood-tipped tiger claws.

Apparently, she never came back. Chose the Lee nails (remember those commercials?) over Mozart and the joy of playing the piano.

I have simple, short fingernails and an equally simple but neat pedicure. Occasionally I decorate them with a little barely nude pink polish.

My horses have beautifully combed out manes and tails, shiny coats, clean stalls and corrals. Sometimes, they are better groomed than I, the middle-aged woman with the wind in my hair and the smell of oats and alfalfa in my nostrils.

I suspect I'll give the big manicure another try here in a few years.

Posted by Kimberly at June 18, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (0)

When my young Percheron X Toby and I are riding out in the wide open spaces bordering our little ranch, and things begin to feel slightly out of control, when the powerful horse feels the need to rush forward out of the sheer joy of all that blue sky and four long legs, then we do what the classical riders suggest -- we return to the circle where we work out the kinks and get our brains and bodies back in synch. I sit deep in the saddle, think long long muscles, looking ahead, remembering to breathe, as we progress around the arc with some degree of softness. I remind myself to keep my hands still, to advance my inside seat bone, use that outside leg. And for heaven's sake, not to stiffen up or I'll be bouncing all over the place and his spine will drop. He seems to appreciate the effort and bends around my inside leg, although I can feel him drifting, oh so sneakily, he thinks, the first few times around at least, towards all those open acres of pinon and juniper that are calling his name. Eaaaasy, I say, to the horse and to myself.

How many circles are safe places? A circle of friends and family. A quilting circle where the air is riddled with idle chit chat and soft laughter. In the circle of a lover's embrace. The circle I drew in the sand with the toe of my sneaker during a late summer night game of kick the can when I was in the fifth grade? Where you were safe and no one else could get you? When the choir sang from the hymnal, "Oh the circle, won't be broken ..." The Native American healing circle.

20 meters. We've come full circle, then.

What else?

Posted by Kimberly at June 14, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (0)