AC, do you like my mani?

Today's Brightside is a reflection and tribute to my dear friend Anna-Christina, who passed away a year ago. AC's memioral service was this weekend and it was as beautiful as she was. I hope wherever this email finds you, you're doing as best as you can these days. The world's a messed up place - tell your friends you love them and show strangers some empathy this weekend.

Disclaimer: Written while listening to way too much James Taylor for a 27 year old.

I think about Anna-Christina every day. But the place I think about her the most is the nail salon.

This isn’t because getting manicures was a shared ritual - in fact as hard as I try, I can’t remember a single time I saw Anna-Christina wear nail polish. Her nails were always short, clean, and naked. Her hands were always baby soft and a little sweaty, which I know because she was the type of person to impulsively grab your hand or touch you emphatically to show solidarity as you were pouring your heart out to her. Because somehow you always were.

I always wanted to take her for a mani-pedi, but between her cancer treatments and my inability to cope with what was happening to her, it never happened. I don’t have many regrets in life, but not getting around to that is one of them.

It makes me sad to think she never experienced the uniquely human delight of watching a small brush run over your fingernails, leaving a brightly colored trail in its wake. She’ll never know how after a manicure, even the most mundane experiences feel elevated - like swiping your subway card or turning the pages of a book.

I think she would have been tickled by a mani-pedi, leaving the salon her nail tech's entire biography and probably even her phone number, promising to text her a poem.

When I sit in nail salons today, I wonder how much of my life I’ve spent - and will get the privilege to spend - getting my cuticles pushed back, sitting in silence while my fingernails get buffed and polished. This introspection is existential, to be sure:

“When I die, will I regret having spent so much time in a manicure chair? Is Anna-Christina trying to reach me, and tell me to find a better way to spend my time? Or is she nodding in encouragement, happy to see me enjoying my time on earth in this exact way?”

I’ll never know for sure, but I do wonder.

And whether or not the nail salon is a “good” use of my time – it's hallowed ground, and I treat it as such. It’s sacred space. It has the power to transform your worldview and sense of self in ways that other places can’t. There’s something about sitting still for an hour and a half without the faculties of your fingers that gives you literal pause.

Last week I joked in on Instagram that my therapist was out of town, so I got an outrageous manicure instead, because I was “going through something”. I was being facetious, but also not – I went into the salon on Tuesday night with chipped polish, down on my luck and wallowing, and left with a fresh set of acrylic tips, ready to run for president. (I call this Elle Woods therapy.)

Maybe it was the new hot pink tips protruding ½ inch from each finger that turned my mood around. Maybe it was the gift of time to sit still and be with my own thoughts. Maybe it was my focused, no-nonsense manicurist who transferred some silent wisdom to me. Maybe AC really was there in that space. Maybe it’s all of these things.

Either way, I can’t say I intend to give up manicures in pursuit of a more noble use of my precious human minutes anytime soon.

AC never got to experience the transformative effects of a mani pedi. But she transformed everyone she met with her childlike wonder and unabashed, earnest curiosity. It’s hard to believe that as I write this, she’s been gone for a year, but it's true.

When I think about her, I imagine what she’d be doing if she was still here. I imagine her running around the Upper West Side, healthy, inspired, in love and commune with the city around her. I imagine her unpolished fingers wrapped around the hand of the 6 year old girl babysat, passing along her wisdom to a new generation of native New York City children.

I imagine us meeting for brunch, laughing till we cry (or more likely, crying until we laugh), trying to solve the world’s problems over a shared fruit bowl and foamy lattes. I imagine her free of pain and healthy.

Anna-Christina, I miss you dearly. And I hope wherever you are, you like my manicure.

With love, Bogs