Musings from the Shitter – Volume Three

Three Nails

This one might not make sense to everyone. That’s okay. It doesn’t have to. Some things aren’t meant to be explained all the way. But I think there’s enough here for anyone reading to find a thread...something to pull on, something to feel.

I paint my nails.

Three of them. The pointer. The middle. The ring. Baby blue. Hot pink right now. Sometimes black.

Why?

I started doing it as a way to feel connected. To bridge the space between my football world and the rest of my life. Outside the pitch, I’ve got this wide group of friends. Different backgrounds. Different beats. Different ways of being in the world. Beautifully varied. And I guess the nails were a small way of saying "I see you. I’m with you". A kind of lowkey flag. A soft shout. An ally, if that’s the word. A signal.

And let’s be honest...on dark skin, hot pink pops like it’s got something to prove. Baby blue looks like a summer sky on my hands. There’s joy in that, too.

But like anything you do with intention, it grew. It deepened. The surface became story.

Why three?

Because I’ve got three girls who make up my world.

Two daughters. One wife. My heart, split three ways. So those nails? They’re not just for style. They’re for them. Symbols. Small shrines on my fingers for the people I come home to.

Ree is my middle finger...fierce, sharp when needed, protective in the way only a woman who’s held space for you can be. That kind of love doesn’t whisper...it shields. It stares life down. It bites when it has to.

The other two? My daughters. My future. One day they’ll ask why I did it, and I’ll say, "because I love you more than I care what anyone thinks".

And then there’s something else. Another layer. One I didn’t expect.

A group I’m part of. Not a band. Not a club. Just... a thing. A bond. We call ourselves “Triple Scissors.” It started in the fog...depression, mostly. That quiet, creeping kind. The kind that doesn’t burst through the door but slowly takes your seat at the table. We found each other during that. Held each other up. Told the truth when it was uncomfortable. Sat in the dark with each other until the light came back.

And then we laughed. And lived. And kept it real. Always 100%, no filters. Loving each other in ways men don’t always talk about, but badly need to. The nails became part of that, too. A flag. A reminder that love, in all its strange forms, can save your ass.

So yeah...three painted nails.

But behind them? A whole world.

My girls. My people. My past selves. My present truths. My quiet declarations.

All painted on in colour.

And now, as I sit here...elbows on knees, replaying it all...I think this is why I write these. To unpack it. To process. To pause for long enough to say, "this matters to me", even if no one claps.

This is a musing from the shitter.

 

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