A new world, painted pink

In the premise that the first sign of addiction is confronting your denial of said addiction, the time has come for me to announce the truth:

I am a nail biter.

I hate the way that sentence looks. I hate the way it sounds. I hate the image it conjures up, of a nervous strung-out girl with chunks of hair missing, eating an Ally Sheedy dandruff sandwich. I'm "normal," I'm healthy, I'm well-adjusted, I'm smart. Surely I'm not a nail biter. And yet, get me on an airplane or watching television, and there I am, biting my nails to the quick.

For 20 years.

I actually used to have fingernails. In fifth grade, I was known for rocking crazy designs in my fingernail polish (coordinated polka dots, stripes, you name it). My friends all had me paint their nails at slumber parties. Somewhere along the way, though, I started biting. I'm not sure when or how, but I'm fairly certain they were gone by the time middle school got underway. And I've never gotten them back.

But calling myself a nail biter? Nooooo. When people saw my little boy nails and asked if I bit them, I would say things like, "I guess so... but I never realize that I do it" or "I bite them when I travel without meaning to." Mmm hmmm. I tried to stop sometime in high school with that pepper polish that stings when you bite, but then I came to enjoy the peppery tingle of the polish (freak). I was proud not to value them. I didn't mind that I wouldn't have a sparkly engagement ring hand photo. I made jokes about them. I didn't care that I'd have little boy nails at our wedding, and certainly wasn't going to put on fake nails just for looks. At the last minute I booked a manicure with clear polish for the morning of the wedding, mostly to get a cozy paraffin hand wrap, just in case my hands were photographed. Guess what happened? The manicurist sliced open my ring finger. In fairness to her, she was so upset she did it that she started crying. I just shrugged it off... to me, it was just a sign that I shouldn't have even bothered.

Something crazy happened a few weeks ago, though.

I looked down at my fingers and I noticed that I had three real nails: actual white parts! I don't know how it happened - it wasn't intentional at all. I became obsessed with how cute the three "long" ones were. I'd bite the others and keep the three growers safe. Then I pictured those weird nail techs at salons with the one crazy long nail, and decided to make a real effort not to bite at all. I don't think I'd ever done that as an adult.

I was at the beach with my cousins, and the nails kept growing. I showed them off and tried to instill in these teenagers the full saga of my nails. My sister, who knows all about my nails, was impressed. I'd catch myself putting them up to my mouth, but I'd actively take them away. Then it hit me: what if I painted them, since true nail polish tastes awful? Would I really be able to turn them into something nice if I used polish as a preventative measure?

Suddenly they were a shimmery nude, and they kept growing. All week long at the beach. I didn't want to mess up the polish, so I was leaving them alone. The day after I returned from the Outer Banks, I was meeting T for drinks and a movie downtown. I decided to go crazy: pink nails.

At the restaurant, I told him I had a surprise. I burst out in a grin and showed him my ultra-girly pink nails. They were there. Short for other girls, but all-out long for me. They were PINK! They were mine. Here they are in all their glory:

It's kind of crazy, having these things. I'm not used to them yet, so I notice them all the time. They're foreign, but somehow not. Typing is weird, for instance. But I've been repainting them - revolutionary stuff for me! I noticed that stuff gets underneath them and I have to clean them. I have a little nail file that was in my Christmas stocking one year and has since been gathering dust (thanks Mom!), and I have been using it. 

Whoa - I can see my nails from behind!

Umm... seriously? PINK NAILS! I really want to do red soon. Ahhhhh!

Crazy stuff. 20 years beginning to give way to something new, all in the span of a few weeks.

I realize this is lame of me, admitting an addiction only to say I've started overcoming it. But "started" is the key word here. The polish prevents me from biting, but I still constantly catch myself putting them to my mouth. How is it possible that for 20 years, I wouldn't admit that I'm a nail biter? It's so clear to me now that I actually notice when I have the impulse. I wonder if one day I'll be able to refrain from biting even without polish.

So tell me, those of you who have stuck with me through this long post... what are your weird behavioral addictions you don't like to admit?  Did you also overcome nail-biting? And importantly: WILL I MAKE IT TO AN ACTUAL MANICURE ONE DAY?