Recently I did something a little out of left field—I went on vacation. To prepare I bought a big floppy hat, a yellow sun dress, white-rimmed sunglasses… you know... all of the essentials from the “Brooklyn lady goes on a tropical vacation starter pack.” But! The pre-purchase that’s going to live in infamy (in my book at least...) was a set of 1 cm gel-covered acrylic nails. Whew, they were cute. Pink, almond shaped, virtually indestructible. Let me paint an even clearer picture: Cardi B nails minus 3 cm, okurrr?

So I get the nails, give my technician a big ol’ tip, head out of the salon, and pull up Lyft to catch a ride home. Except I Can’t. Open. Lyft. My nails! Too long, too furious! I’m stabbing the screen with the pad of my index finger like I’m a cavewoman trying to work a Kindle. Me can’t type Chrystie Street. Me want to go home!

A lot more of that happened as I went on vacation. My nails functioned as a kind of time warp—suddenly I was a baby. Me to my fiancé: Open this jar, button this dress, untie these shoes. I pierced through cheap toilet paper as if my nails were the Incredible Hulk bursting through a white tank; I removed and inserted contact lenses with a concentration level I usually reserve for Operation. And when I got back to work? [Cackles in Cardi B.] I couldn’t do anything! Can’t type, can’t tap my mouse. I am dictating this post through Siri right now, and I’ll be the first to say that lady needs a lesson or two on homonyms.

I’ve trying a couple more methods to stay sane. I’m using my knuckles a lot more, I’m carefully punching the keyboard with just my index fingers, I’m texting at a glacial pace. But truthfully I don’t think I’m cut out for this long nail life. Too many typos, too many wayward autocorrects. Sometimes a lady’s just got to say duck it, you know?

—Ashley Weatherford

Photo via the author