Good evening and a very warm welcome. Tonight my story is entitled:

Her Name is Vanity

Vanity can be a precarious thing to indulge oneself in and if left to get out control then one is surely headed for disaster, as I have found out to my

own cost.

I would suppose that each of us has at sometime or another tried to improve our physical appearance in the belief that we shall feel better about ourselves.  A sort of wake-up call when you know that you are letting your appearance slide.  Maybe all that is needed to kick you back into gear is a new hairstyle, revamping your wardrobe or even just throwing aside those trainers and trying to walk in high heels for a change.

With me, my wake-up call was all about nails.

I would not say that I have pretty hands or nails.  My excuse for their condition has always been that they are hard working hands but that is really just a feeble excuse for not taking care of them properly. A love of gardening and forever immersed in hot soapy water, they tell their own story.

However, once my mind is made up about something, I tend to go overboard with enthusiasm if you know what I mean.  I never do anything half-heartedly; I am more like a steam train trying to break the sound barrier.  Well we all know that's not possible but no one has yet told that to Vanity.

My objective was clear; I was going to have nails at least worthy of some admiration. Over the months a steady array of colourful nail polishes started to appear on the dressing table besides all the other paraphernalia that Vanity demanded of me.  I was starting to feel good about myself but in hindsight I now know it was the start of vainness creeping in. 

I say that because Vanity didn't like me doing the gardening anymore and she totally refused to go anywhere near a sink full of dirty pots and pans.  What did she care if my husband complained about having to do the washing up every night.  It was bad enough that she had had to peel the vegetables; what more did he want from her?

Now the question is: Why, in my quest for perfect nails would I end up dropping superglue into my eye?

Well, we all know that pride comes before a fall and this was payback time for me and my self-centred companion Vanity.

Getting up one morning for work my eyes felt gritty and sore so I reached out for the eye drops.  Strange though, the droplets hitting my eye felt warm, not cold as they usually were.  It was then that I realised I had picked up the wrong bottle and had used superglue instead.  

The 2 bottles, one of which was nail repair glue and the other for eye drops, where so similar is size and dimensions that I had inadvertently picked up the wrong bottle.

It's quite comical to think about it now but at the time I was in a state of sheer panic. 

Jumping in my car I drove to the RAF station where I worked. The duty doctor at the Medical Centre could be called out and he would help me.  Every male motorist I passed on that journey must have thought it was their lucky day when they observed this oncoming female driver winking at them.  Heaven knows what the female drivers thought of me though!

Do you really want to know how painful it is to have your eyelashes cut off?  I would liken the pain to having one's nails pulled out.   A rather good comparison to make considering it was nails that got me into all this trouble in the first place.

I have long since got rid of my companion Vanity for she was far too conceited and selfish, plus I didn't really want her around me anymore.  My new companion these days is called Marigold*.  She's always there to remind me to put on her rubber gloves when doing the washing up and I must admit we get on pretty well together.

It's hard sometimes to do all things in moderation.  Personally, I don't fit the bill in that respect at all.  However, life teaches you lessons as you travel its long and winding road so please take this advice from me.  If you ever have the misfortune to meet up with Vanity, avoid her like the plague.

 (*Trade name for household rubber gloves)

Goodnight and thank you for listening to my story.

 
© Rebecca Rowan September 2007