I've had a horrendously garish nailpolish color on my toenails for a whole week.

I selected four nailpolish colors at the nail salon, and asked the woman giving me a pedicure to pick which one she thought was best. Three of the colors were pinkish, and one was a bright orange. She went for that one straightaway.

As soon as the color went on, I was aghast. Well, aghast is too strong a word. I was actually amused by how boldly bad it was. The color looked fine in the bottle, but was totally halloween on my toenails. But I didn't have the heart (nor the time, since I was on my lunch break) to have the poor woman remove it and put on a new color. She'd already labored at my feet for 15-20 minutes, cleaning, massaging, shaping, and otherwise prettying up my toenails.

I meant to remove the color myself soon after, but didn't get around to it over Labor Day weekend. Then I decided to try to keep it on - for as long as I could tolerate it - just to see how many people would notice and say something about it. Sometimes I get a bit of guilty pleasure out of showcasing something yucky on my corpus. Like, when I have an unusually large, shiny, red zit, I purposely don't put concealer on it. And I still have fun showing people those pictures from almost two years ago of the nasty poison oak rash I had on my face.

So far, only one person has actually said something about the nailpolish. I'm disappointed. I caught a little girl staring at my feet when Babe and I were at Pier 39 over the weekend. I'm not going to wait any longer for more of reaction. I can't stand the color anymore, so it's coming off tonight.