Post by Rhonda on May 22, 2009 3:51:04 GMT -5
It Helps to Have a Friend
It Helps to Have a Friend From Chicken Soup for the Soul: My Resolution
By Pauline Youd
A true friend reaches for your hand and touches your heart.
~Author Unknown
"Mm, good coffee," said my next door neighbor, Virginia, pushing aside the folded laundry on my couch. "What kind? And what'd you do to your finger?"
"You noticed," I said gingerly holding my cup between my thumb and third finger. "Chocolate Raspberry and I bit my nail and cuticle back too far."
"You're a nail biter?" she asked, dismissing the name of my favorite flavored coffee.
"Yeah," I admitted. "It's my life-long, childhood habit."
"When do you do it?" she asked, leaning over the coffee table and eyeballing me.
I straightened a little. "When do I do what? Make flavored coffee? Only when you come over. Bill doesn't like it. He says it is women's coffee."
"Your nails, silly," she said, laughing. "When do you bite your nails?"
I shrugged. "How do I know? All the time, I guess. If I don't bite them, I pick them off. It really only hurts when I get them too short or get an infection."
Virginia gasped. "You got an infection from biting your nails?"
"Uh-huh," I said, "It happens when my wounded little fingers go swimming in dirty dishwater." I tried to be nonchalant, but Virginia wouldn't turn loose.
"I'll help you quit," she volunteered.
"It's a lost cause," I countered. "I've tried to quit all my life. When I was a little girl my aunt offered me five dollars to quit, but I couldn't."
"Well, for the next two weeks I'm going to come over every morning and give you a manicure," she announced. "Together we're going to kick your habit!"
"Every morning?" I said in disbelief. "What do you think you're going to manicure, the ends of my fingers?"
"You'll see," she said. "I won't stay long, just long enough to do your nails."
The next morning, Virginia was at my kitchen door with a tray full of manicuring equipment. The sun streamed in the breakfast nook window as she spread my hands out flat on the table. She surveyed the damage and set right to work.
"First we have to file off the rough places and trim the snags," she said.
There wasn't much to file but she filed and filed. Then she gently pushed back my cuticles and trimmed off snags.
"Ow!" I said when she pushed on a tender spot. My fingers weren't overjoyed with the attention, but I was intrigued that she would spend so much time on such awful-looking hands. Finally she opened a small bottle of clear nail polish and carefully polished each stub as if it were a magnificently long nail.
"There!" she said triumphantly. "See you tomorrow." She quickly loaded up her tray and left.
I sat there a long time looking at my shiny stubs. No one had ever spent that much time caring for them before, especially not me.
That afternoon I attacked a long put-off project. I spread fabric on the floor and took out the pattern for my new dress. As I worked to place the pattern pieces just right before cutting, I felt my bottom teeth rub against a fingernail. I quickly separated the two. Within a minute I felt it again.
"I'll ruin the polish," I wailed.
By the third time, I realized my hand had a mind of its own, bypassing my brain.
The next morning Virginia came again. She took a cotton ball and some polish remover and took off yesterday's polish. The nicks smarted, but I didn't complain. Again she filed and filed, pushed back cuticles, painted stubs, and was gone.
Later in the day, when I was working on my grocery list, I discovered my left hand in my mouth. I quickly retrieved it and sat on it while I completed the list.
Every day for a week Virginia came over and did a complete manicure. She filed so much I feared my nails would never grow, but they looked and felt so much better because the surrounding tissue was no longer inflamed.
Gradually, as I became aware of where my hands were, I could keep them in my lap or wherever else my brain directed them. No longer did they subconsciously go to my mouth. My nails had become my focal point because Virginia cared about them. And I was learning to care, too.
At the end of two weeks there was a smooth band of white around the tip of each nail.
"We're going to switch to twice a week now," Virginia said. She laughed. "I'll have to see if I can break my new habit of Chocolate Raspberry coffee."
The last time Virginia came to do my nails, she brought a bottle of shocking pink polish. She polished and I "oohed and ahhed" as I displayed a set of long, polished nails. Then she pronounced me "graduated."
So was I no longer tempted by a crunchy nail treat? Hardly! I found that every three or four months I had to reinforce my decision and new habit. Virginia suggested that I temporarily cover the evidence of any fingernail attack with a press-on nail, refocus on where my hands were, and start manicuring again.
I found myself frequently whispering, "Thank you, Lord, for a friend who cared enough to help me break my nail-biting habit." Otherwise, I might never have tried.
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It Helps to Have a Friend From Chicken Soup for the Soul: My Resolution
By Pauline Youd
A true friend reaches for your hand and touches your heart.
~Author Unknown
"Mm, good coffee," said my next door neighbor, Virginia, pushing aside the folded laundry on my couch. "What kind? And what'd you do to your finger?"
"You noticed," I said gingerly holding my cup between my thumb and third finger. "Chocolate Raspberry and I bit my nail and cuticle back too far."
"You're a nail biter?" she asked, dismissing the name of my favorite flavored coffee.
"Yeah," I admitted. "It's my life-long, childhood habit."
"When do you do it?" she asked, leaning over the coffee table and eyeballing me.
I straightened a little. "When do I do what? Make flavored coffee? Only when you come over. Bill doesn't like it. He says it is women's coffee."
"Your nails, silly," she said, laughing. "When do you bite your nails?"
I shrugged. "How do I know? All the time, I guess. If I don't bite them, I pick them off. It really only hurts when I get them too short or get an infection."
Virginia gasped. "You got an infection from biting your nails?"
"Uh-huh," I said, "It happens when my wounded little fingers go swimming in dirty dishwater." I tried to be nonchalant, but Virginia wouldn't turn loose.
"I'll help you quit," she volunteered.
"It's a lost cause," I countered. "I've tried to quit all my life. When I was a little girl my aunt offered me five dollars to quit, but I couldn't."
"Well, for the next two weeks I'm going to come over every morning and give you a manicure," she announced. "Together we're going to kick your habit!"
"Every morning?" I said in disbelief. "What do you think you're going to manicure, the ends of my fingers?"
"You'll see," she said. "I won't stay long, just long enough to do your nails."
The next morning, Virginia was at my kitchen door with a tray full of manicuring equipment. The sun streamed in the breakfast nook window as she spread my hands out flat on the table. She surveyed the damage and set right to work.
"First we have to file off the rough places and trim the snags," she said.
There wasn't much to file but she filed and filed. Then she gently pushed back my cuticles and trimmed off snags.
"Ow!" I said when she pushed on a tender spot. My fingers weren't overjoyed with the attention, but I was intrigued that she would spend so much time on such awful-looking hands. Finally she opened a small bottle of clear nail polish and carefully polished each stub as if it were a magnificently long nail.
"There!" she said triumphantly. "See you tomorrow." She quickly loaded up her tray and left.
I sat there a long time looking at my shiny stubs. No one had ever spent that much time caring for them before, especially not me.
That afternoon I attacked a long put-off project. I spread fabric on the floor and took out the pattern for my new dress. As I worked to place the pattern pieces just right before cutting, I felt my bottom teeth rub against a fingernail. I quickly separated the two. Within a minute I felt it again.
"I'll ruin the polish," I wailed.
By the third time, I realized my hand had a mind of its own, bypassing my brain.
The next morning Virginia came again. She took a cotton ball and some polish remover and took off yesterday's polish. The nicks smarted, but I didn't complain. Again she filed and filed, pushed back cuticles, painted stubs, and was gone.
Later in the day, when I was working on my grocery list, I discovered my left hand in my mouth. I quickly retrieved it and sat on it while I completed the list.
Every day for a week Virginia came over and did a complete manicure. She filed so much I feared my nails would never grow, but they looked and felt so much better because the surrounding tissue was no longer inflamed.
Gradually, as I became aware of where my hands were, I could keep them in my lap or wherever else my brain directed them. No longer did they subconsciously go to my mouth. My nails had become my focal point because Virginia cared about them. And I was learning to care, too.
At the end of two weeks there was a smooth band of white around the tip of each nail.
"We're going to switch to twice a week now," Virginia said. She laughed. "I'll have to see if I can break my new habit of Chocolate Raspberry coffee."
The last time Virginia came to do my nails, she brought a bottle of shocking pink polish. She polished and I "oohed and ahhed" as I displayed a set of long, polished nails. Then she pronounced me "graduated."
So was I no longer tempted by a crunchy nail treat? Hardly! I found that every three or four months I had to reinforce my decision and new habit. Virginia suggested that I temporarily cover the evidence of any fingernail attack with a press-on nail, refocus on where my hands were, and start manicuring again.
I found myself frequently whispering, "Thank you, Lord, for a friend who cared enough to help me break my nail-biting habit." Otherwise, I might never have tried.
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