Hardly Pedant

Deciding to paint my nails, I yet again found a way to convince myself that magically this time I'll be able to paint my right hand. But like always, the polish was thick and disclosed from the actual goal of filling in the boundaries and trickled down, leaving an iris colored trail on the curve of my index. And as much as I tried, it dried in a horseshoe ring around my tip. I couldn't stand to leave it like that, so I had someone fix it up for me and redo the nail, and although it had improved, I still saw a small tinted slither under the shadow of each bed. I stared at the designs and knew that if I left them, I couldn't help but be bothered the rest of the day by the imperfection of the polish work. I'm like this with a lot of things in my life. My handwriting, my hair, my meticulous daily routines, small events that I make take place that shouldn't matter. Sitting there, eyes intently fixed on the coated skin, I thought; I call myself a perfectionist, but really, theirs nothing perfect about me.