There’s a Seinfeld episode where George says, “You know, I can now bite my fingernails so evenly I don’t even need to use a clipper anymore.” To which Jerry responds, “But it’s a pleasure to use clippers. Why gnaw away like a mental patient when we have this elegant device?” I’ve been chewing my fingernails my whole life. Forty-plus years of sticking filthy fingers into my mouth and always ALWAYS because something “feels rough” or has the appearance of needing to be “smoothed.”
When I see someone else chew on their fingers, I’m grossed out. There was an older woman at work, who was eventually given the choice of retirement or fire-ment, who would schlurp on her fingernails in meetings, just going to town, and I’d wonder, is it a lack of awareness? Or lack of shame? But, would it matter? Because I have both awareness and shame and here I am, in the same predicament, except usually (but not always) white-knuckling my way through staff meetings sans fingers-in-mouth. I have another coworker whose nails are practically non-existent, just little nubs that lack even a hint of a white tip, and it looks painful. At least I have nails, I think. I mean, sure, they may be bloody, but they are recognizable.
Ahh, the arrogance of a nail-biter. Not unlike being fat, “but at least I’m not as fat as her.” “At least I don’t have as much school debt as him.” “At least my dogs only poop inside, not pee.” See? Where does this “I’m better than you” attitude stop? Because ultimately, doesn’t it just further fuel bad habits? “…so I might as well have a double-scoop waffle-cone.” “…so I might as well go back to school and accumulate more debt for yet another useless degree.” “…so I might as well…” What? Not house train the next dog? Ignore the bad behaviors of the current pet?
I’ve gone through phases when I’ve decided, this is it, I’m done chewing, and I spend like fifty bucks at Rite Aid on fingernail accoutrement. The problem is that these devices are just more delicate instruments with which to really dig into my cuticles with greater depth, penetration, and destruction. It’s a vicious circle: once I’ve felt a little rough patch, some bit of calloused skin, I can’t stop touching it, so I nibble and chew and then escalate to a paper clip, pulled apart to give me a dagger with which to remove that offending flesh nub, which only makes the cuticle rougher, which requires even more attention to smooth.
When I was little, my mom would put this nail polish on my fingers that tasted nasty, and it’s supposed to get you to stop chewing. It didn’t work then, but I figured as an older and more mature person I’d have the sense of mind to taste the yuck and take the fingers out of my mouth. Except, the problem is that as an adult, I have better fine motor control and am able to work around the nasty nail polish, scraping it off with my teeth to get to my now gloss-hardened cuticles that demand to be chewed. So far, the only thing that really works is getting manicures weekly, which was fine and good during the divorce when I was living alone and had nothing to do on the weekends, but in real life, this doesn’t work because who has the time and the money? The problem with dropping the ball and not going weekends is that the shiny polish starts to grow out, and the shiny polish draws my attention to my nails and reminds me to pick. It’s like when I write down what I eat in attempts to curb my intake. It helps, but at the same time I become fixated, more so than if I just didn’t track my food intake.
There are a couple theories about nail-biting. It might be a mechanism to reduce anxiety, or it might be tic disorder. Maybe it’s a form of obsessive-compulsion. Some consider it pathological grooming, kind of like face-picking or eyebrow-plucking. The theory that hits closest to home is that nail-biting provides instantaneous relief to perfectionists, folks like me who are easily bored and frustrated (“at least I’m doing something, and it’s got to be better than nothing”). Whatever the reason, it starts off super-satisfying, but always ends in blood and embarrassment. I’ve caught myself in meetings, hands on the table in full view of everyone, picking and peeling away at my nails, to the point that I need to brush the dead skin-bits off the table. Sometimes I’ll move my hands to my lap, embarrassed by the whole thing, but then without that accountability of shame, I rip into the cuticles until they bleed, then sit with my fingernail pressed into my jeans wishing it would stop, or using a strip of paper from my notepad as an impromptu bandage.
I was so excited when I learned that the reason Jackie O. always wore gloves because she was a chronic nail-biter. It really classes up an otherwise neurotic tendency. I don’t think I could pull off the gloves-look without appearing insane. One of my coworkers had a bad bout of eczema recently, forcing him to slather a cocktail of topical creams and moisturizers on his hands, then protect them in a pair of gloves. Granted, he went with the only gloves he had, which were garden gloves, and so naturally, yes, we did all ask him what the fuck was going on. And I suppose I could just change my entire look, like maybe go Goth, which would raise a whole lot of other questions before anyone zeroed in specifically on the gloves. But, I just don’t have it in me.
Until I find the remedy to my madness, I’ll continue as-is, holding coffee cups or the stanchions on the bus with curled-under fingertips, and drawing the attention of a coworker to their misspelled words on computer monitors by way of a knuckle rather than finger; and I will abide requests of, “what a gorgeous wedding ring; can I see?” with a limp-fingered hand that possesses all the grace of Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday, and the consummate class of Jackie Kennedy as she welcomed heads-of-state to the White House.