Blech

There are some things you just don't do in public. Among the most obvious, of course, are peeing, spitting somewhere that is not a proper spit receptacle, and, if you are particularly unfortunate looking, making out.

I have a less obvious but equally icky item to add to the list: cutting your nails.

Nail-cutting should be a private affair, to be conducted alone in one's bedroom or backyard - somewhere where the sound of dead nails snapping off fingers won't be heard, somewhere where the droppings won't be stepped on. This is not for public consumption. Why, oh why, then have I been forced to bear witness to no fewer than three public nail-cuttings in the past week?

By far, today's was the most egregious. Sitting on the Metro, that unmistakable snapping sound emanated from the seat directly behind me, cutting through the music coming from my mug-me-white ear buds. "Don't turn around," I told myself. I didn't want to see the face of my new nemesis, the individual responsible for ruining my commute. And I didn't. For like 30 seconds. I couldn't help myself, and I looked at the window to see the reflection of the nefarious nail-clipper behind me.

Lo and behold! It was a young mother clipping the nails of her two-ish year-old son. Gah! This kid will be a life-long cut-nails-in-public-er. Way to teach your kid lessons on how to live life, lady.

When I'm a super hero, that kid is going to be my arch-enemy.