Seeing as I’ve now started receiving desperate advertising attempts from ASOS, telling me that they miss me and I should come back and browse their new Collection; possibly underlines the distance I’ve created between myself and shopping.
Not that I stereotype, but like most females, I bloody love to shop! Plans would be sacrificed to enable a full morning-to-evening round trip of Westfield London, and it would no doubt be planned weeks in advance until I would inevitably churn my pay check to pulp at the bottom of a Topshop bag.
Anorexia and shopping don’t really seem to go hand in hand. It’s an ongoing, inward battle as to whether to succumb to buying new clothes to cater for the drop in dress sizes, even though there’s a part of you that knows you’re not expected to remain this size for long anyway. The other issue, I found, was indecision. Decisions of what clothes to buy became borderline impossible as I struggled to fill my online shopping bag with anything more than a sports bra and gym clothes.
Not being able to shop (or just haven’t not done so for what feels like forever) really has its pitfalls. There’s nothing better than treating yourself to a new item of clothing and the excitement you get to when you can eventually wear it. It obviously makes you look and feel good, otherwise you wouldn’t have bought it; so without shopping, you’re not left with too much more to make you feel and look good.
This is where the nails come in…
I think I’ve now come to accept – at least for the meantime – that I’ve indefinitely sacrificed my love for netball and playing the piano, in order to compensate for having cheap, tacky plastic at the end of my fingertips (and I’d have it no other way). So once a month, feeling like I’ve entered into an episode of Eastenders, I make my routine visit to the nail shop, and merrily take my seat under the mini nail surgery table. This is my new shopping. This is what I use to make me feel and look good, and for anyone that knows me, I seem to have adopted a pretty niche talent in producing an outrageous set of painted nails.
My 8 struggles and thoughts of a fake nail addict
What if I spoke mandarin and they just never know?
I’m sorry, but yes, I did just say it. Am I the only one that tries to make out that I do actually speak mandarin and know exactly what they’re saying to each other in a bid to make them think that I know they’re secretly talking about us… I can’t deny that this is my only incentive to want to learn mandarin and be able to eventually pipe in and say “Yes, I think their nail colour choice is awful too”
If you don’t walk into a nail shop with a specific outfit and colour choice in mind, you’ll no doubt end up leaving the shop still thinking about that other shade you should have got instead. When you’re faced with an array of coloured polish, eventually the pressure of the nail artist who is pressingly looking you up and down, just ends up in you succumbing to the Barbie pink pot, out of sheer panic.
Gel, shellac, acrylic?
Sorry what? So they’re not all the same thing?
Without fake nails, all I see extending from my wrists are short, sausage fingers; stubbed from the loss of polished acrylic.
A new life unleashed
Adopting your own way of doing day-to-day things to fit your life around your nails. Forget trying to button up a shirt with small buttons on because you’d be there all day.
The not so glamorous…
I’m pretty sure at some point in the day (namely after handling the food that constitutes my dinner) I’ll have the whole village of A Bug’s Life living under the roof of the plastic. Saying this, I always have a trusty bottle of alcohol gel lying around to significantly reduce this issue.
Chipping the colour, breaking the edge, or losing the nail entirely is more heart breaking than when I realise I’ve run out of Sainsbury’s Jazz apples.
Find a penny, pick it up…
… And you won’t have any good luck for the day because you won’t be able to pick it up in the first place.