Biting my fingernails? I do that less frequently now

A word of explanation about today's headline (well, actually a few words)...

(1) "I do that less frequently now" is a line from the old Nickelodeon series "iCarly" that is occasionally quoted in our family. It was originally uttered by Gibby, one of my favorite characters in TV history, in reference to the fact that, as the series went on, he didn't randomly take his shirt off nearly as often as he had in the show's first few seasons.

(2) I am a longtime nail biter. Here's a post from eight years ago in which I lamented this fact and sought ways to break the habit.

Nail biting is one of those things some of us do without even realizing we're doing it. I'll be proofreading something I've written at work, staring at my computer screen, and suddenly find myself chomping down on a long thumbnail. I don't remember putting my hand to my mouth, but there it is.

The result is that my nails always give the impression I make my living manually sorting through shards of broken glass and scrap metal. They're perpetually uneven, cracked, and bitten down lower than they should be.

Until recently, that is. Somehow I have found the discipline to stop biting. I will never be a hand model, but I have finally achieved some semblance of the semi-manicured, white crescent moon nails I see so many well-groomed men sporting.

It finally looks like I actually pay attention to my nails, which over the past month or so I guess I have.

But I'm running into the sorts of problems I previously associated only with women.

Like broken nails. I'm not growing lady nails or anything, but twice already I've found a nail starting to crack, forcing me to clip and file it down, and then having to wait for it to grow back again to match the length of its neighbors.

And rampant cuticles (NOTE: The Rampant Cuticles would be a good name for a band.) I'm constantly having to push those things down to keep them in check. I rarely worried about this in years past.

And how about the annoying click of nails on a computer keyboard? Again, I don't have Rihanna-length nails or anything, but there's just enough protruding nail to tap the keys as I bang out a blog post or a work email. Both the sound and the feeling are somewhat disconcerting.

I don't know how you longtime fingernail landscapers put up with it.

I have broken ingrained bad habits before, including my longstanding addiction to nose drops, so I know I can make this nail regimen last. It really doesn't take all that much effort.

But that's not to say I don't still consider taking a big bite out of the fast-growing nails on my ring fingers. For some reason those things sprout like weeds compared to my other nails.

It's still so tempting.

How do I stop biting my nails?

One thing basketball star Lebron James and I share, besides world-class athletic ability and millions of dollars in sponsorship revenue, is the frowned-upon habit of biting our nails.

I don't know why Lebron is constantly nibbling on his fingertips, and come to think of it, I have no idea why I do it, either. Or why it's so hard to stop.

Believe me, I've tried. I get the urge to chomp off a big section of nail and then I think myself, "Don't do that. It's disgusting. And it also makes your small hands look even worse. Let your nails grow. Take care of them. Make them look nice."

Then I stare at that tempting nail and I want so badly to bite it. I try to ignore it, but it just taunts me. In the end, I always give in and bite it. Why? Why can't I resist? What's the big attraction?

One time my sister, who for decades has owned a salon and knows about such things, gave me cuticle oil to use. And a little tool to push those cuticles back. I vowed to start taking care of my nails and to stop biting them, and I stuck to this punishing regimen for 17 full minutes before reverting back to my old ways.

At our wedding, Terry and I took a picture of our hands to show off our wedding rings. Her hand comes across in the photo across as slender and pretty, with French-manicured nails. Mine appears to belong to an 11-year-old dwarf who got into a fight with a badger (and lost). It's a study in horrible contrast.

I always figured that eventually I would grow up and start taking care of my nails, but I'm 45 and it has yet to happen. My fingernails are jagged and ugly, with peeling cuticles that appear to have been neglected for several presidential administrations.

So how do I stop this? Has anyone here quit the habit and can tell me how they did it? Was there hot sauce involved? Or electric shocks?

I'll try anything. I'm like the smoker who has gone through nicotine patches, gum and hypnosis with no result. I'm desperate here, people. Help me out.

I'll be tearing my nails to bits as I anxiously await your suggestions

Four things I know I'm supposed to do but don't

Read the Classics

I have a degree in English and history from a well-regarded institution of higher learning (John Carroll University...go Blue Streaks!), yet I have never read The Scarlet Letter. Or Pride and Prejudice. Or Moby Dick. Or Don Quixote. How could this be?

(Actually, I know how it can be. Upper-level English courses get so specialized and esoteric that you end up reading the collected works of a 17th-century Finnish poet and have no time for The Hunchback of Notre Dame, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, or War and Peace, also books I've never read.)

The point is, I should make time to atone for the glaring holes in my literary resume by actually reading these books. But I don't. Nor will I, at least not any time soon. It's easier to lament not having read them than it is to check them out of the library and crack open the front cover.

Lift Weights

I just mentioned this recently. I'm not a strength training guy. Never have been. I run. I run quite a bit. But I never touch the weights.

And it has always been like this. Even when I played football in high school, I was not a frequent visitor to the weight room. And by "not a frequent visitor," I mean I showed up there once a year to perform the mandatory weight-lifting tests set forth by my coaches. Then I wouldn't visit again until the following year.

I know I'm supposed to lift, but I can't stand it. Just like a lot of people know they're supposed to do cardiovascular exercise but can't stand running, cycling or climbing aboard the elliptical machine. To each his own, I suppose.

Take Care of My Fingernails

First off, I have abnormally small hands. And thus I have abnormally small fingernails. Making matters worse, I bite those fingernails. I bite 'em right down to the nub.

I admire people who take care of their nails, particularly guys. Society doesn't necessarily expect men to do much in the way of fingernail work, so I like the extra effort put in by guys with clean, nicely shaped nails.

My nails are ugly. At our wedding reception, the photographer took a picture of Terry's hand and my hand together as we showed off our new rings. Her nails are, as you would expect, beautifully manicured. Mine look like they belong to a 7-year-old. A hyperactive, nail-biting 7-year-old.

I'm embarrassed by it, but not so much that I'm motivated to do anything about it. My ugly nails will live on as long as I do.

Drive Under the Speed Limit

Depending on the mood I'm in, I'll drive anywhere from 5 to 15 mph over the speed limit. Not terribly bad, but still not legal, either.

The trouble is, I have kids. And I'm supposed to model proper driving procedures for those kids. Which is why I try to shield their eyes from the speedometer when I'm going 75 mph down a stretch of 60 mph freeway.

I should slow down, I know. And I don't. There are those who drive way faster than I do, but that's no excuse for breaking the rules. I will freely chalk this up to a classic case of hypocritical "do as I say, not as I do" when it comes to my children.

Five Things I Could Probably Handle If Something Ever Happened To My Wife, But Not Nearly As Well As She Does

(1) Children's fingernail and toenail maintenance
Actually we're almost past this stage, as the older ones handle their own nails and Jack is only a few years away from taking over for himself. But ever since they were babies, Terry was always the one who trimmed their nails. I could have, of course, but it would never EVER occur to me to do it. They would have seven-inch-long fingernails before the very thought even entered my brain that somebody -- I don't know who, but somebody -- should do something about that kid's nails.

(2) Directing the set-up of holiday decorations
As I mentioned recently on Facebook, my job here is merely to cart things up from the basement and generally supervise the manual labor portion. After that, I'm pretty much optional. I couldn't even tell you everything that's inside those boxes. "We have a turkey flag for Thanksgiving? That's so cool! When did we get it? Oh, 1996? OK, I should have known that."

(3) The girls' hair
Again, this is almost a moot point now, given their age, but if Terry had been hit by a bus, say, 10 years ago, there would have been trouble. She taught me once how to do a ponytail, and I did manage to craft a decent one for Elissa when she was 4 and I took her to Niagara Falls. But for the most part, I'm mystified by braids, pigtails, scrunchies and the like.

(4) Having babies
OK, I know I couldn't do this anyway, but I need to point out how well Terry does it. I've watched her push out five kids -- well, technically she pushed out four and the last one was cut out of her -- and in all that time I think I heard her grunt once. Barely a peep from her. Just amazing, especially when you consider the physics of what's going on. I would manage to get the kid out, but with a lot more complaining than Terry ever did.

(5) Folding stuff
If Terry were gone (it's getting really morbid the way I keep talking about it, isn't it?), the laundry would get done, believe me. But it might not be pretty. I try and try to fold things as well as she does with no success. You can instantly tell the difference between a shirt folded by me and one folded by her. She does it using what is commonly referred to as the "right" way, while I tend to lean toward doing it the "wrong" way.

CONCLUSION: I need to die first, no question about it.