Nails wet! Need new top coat! Nothing could be less important, of course, except that I am a middle-aged Italian-American woman with a white collar job in a temperature-controlled pressure cooker, and I never – never – leave the house with chipped polish. An hour into my work day, I may discover my sweater’s inside out or I’m wearing different jeans than I thought, but my nails are done, which may be the only thing about my entire day over which I have an iota of control. Omigod, what am I wearing?

Pete and I live very austere lives for Americans: we work six days a week, use eco-friendly products, hang-dry our laundry, bicycle all over the place, reuse stuff almost to the point of obsession; we compost and stay home for fun because our cats let us. Our means are modest, as are our needs: we save up, buy good gear and plan to use it for years, which is a healthy way to regard buying good shoes, but a terrible way to buy nail polish. I find myself perpetually in need of newer, stranger and more exciting colors, which I attribute to my failure to manipulate lactose-intolerant Pete into making me a tasty cheese fondue. So blue polish will now remind me of long-lost gruyere.