Idle Worship.(wellness)(Editorial)

Byline: Linda Wells, Editor in Chief

I used to go to a manicurist who ran her salon as if she were the exacting headmistress of a finishing school. She accepted new clients only by referral. She allowed no men past the wind chimes in the waiting area. Whispering was permitted; chattering was not. And when she brushed on the last coat of polish, she would issue strict instructions: Do not use your hands for the rest of the eveningno making dinner, no shuffling papers, no household tasks of any kind. She'd fish out the keys from my purse and wedge them between my knuckles, and then, leaning out the door, holler, "Order takeout!" as I turned toward home.

The rest of my evening would be spent imitating a member of the Imperial Family of Japan, hands flapping uselessly in the air, pencil between the teeth to turn the pages of a magazine or to punch the phone number of the sushi place (I doubt Empress Michiko has ever done that last bit). I felt like a ditz, but my nail polish lasted eight chipless days.

The best part about the whole endeavor was the forced idleness. I've never gotten the hang of mindful meditation or its hippie uncle, Transcendental Meditation, but when Valerie the manicurist ordered me to sit still all evening, I obeyed and enjoyed. I could feel my stress dissolve.