The smell of acetone invaded my nostrils like Midwest gas station fumes in July.
Unlike sniffing salts before a monster lift or risking a few brain cells for a Sharpie sniff as a kid, this scent was stagnant.
Once my nose nerves were fried, my other senses came alive.
I gawked at the statement chandelier made of sprawling crystals in the middle of the waiting room.
The high-top front counter, nail polish wall, and stations were all black marble surfaces.
“You can type your number on the screen,” the owner yelled.
Shortly after checking in, I was escorted to a black swivel seat.
“Give me your hand,” the nail technician said to me.
I looked at the clock nervously and tried to breathe carefully.
While having my nails done makes me feel mentally polished, the process is quite uncomfortable for an anxious individual with an attention disorder.
Why do people enjoy this?
I guessed that 90 percent of the tools at my nail technician’s station also reside in my dentist’s office.
The drill filed off my previous dip coat – That same device shaved my cavity last year.
Then it nipped my finger.
“Relax,” the nail technician said.
Now, I am standing in the batter’s box as a teen. My coach is yelling at me, “Relax, relax, relax!”
Every person close to me has claimed for a couple of decades that I need to chill.
And so have strangers like my dude in the purple Galaxy polo who picked up on my problem trying to prep my hands.
He poured acetone on a ripped piece of cotton that stuck to my nail – no smell, just a cool feeling as the tips of my fingers were wrapped in foil like tiny burritos.
Using my available hand, I madly flipped through 100-plus plastic swatches with frustration.
“What color are you looking for?” He asked.
“Light pink,” I replied. “None of these shades are what I want.
He got up, grabbed an even bigger collection of colorful fake nails, and handed them to me.
“Ninety-two,” I said flashing my smile for the first time.
When I wrote the first half of this blog post a month ago, I knew the themes I wanted to share as the thoughts rolled through my mind every month I went to Galaxy Nails.
It was not until this past Saturday when I reflected on wanting to write the rest of the blog, that I admitted I needed a sign to connect it. A couple of hours later, I was at 4 p.m. Mass listening to Father spew a homily about control.
The way he said control was powerful. The word radiated with confidence and command – spelled with a capital C.
Control.
Control was the word I needed to finish this blog post, but even more so the word I needed as I prepped for a week where so many elements in my life felt out of control.
As a softball player, I was a very confident fielder and catcher. No one screamed behind the fence telling me to “relax” on offense.
I was always in control.
Playing the role of a batter was different, though.
Despite being yelled at constantly to loosen up, I never processed in all of my years playing ball how to relax.
My stiffened stance was my body’s response to having no control over what was about to be thrown my way.
And here I am giving my hand to a stranger with a bunch of dental tools.
“God is in Control of your life,” the priest said.
Like my nail technician, God says give me your hand and “relax.”
The concept is hard to submit to – Trust another power to be the driver of your life.
But learning to be OK with not being in control is the ultimate way to peace.
I will never be able to control or predict other people’s decisions and other situational factors that make life move.
However, my destiny may be in a greater power’s hands, but I can continue to learn to relax in the batter’s box of life and be grateful for what I can Control such as picking 92 pink on my nails.