***Preface*** In the comment section of a recent post, a question of the integrity of my blog’s content was implied: Do I make this stuff up?  It’s not the first time I’ve been asked—someone once even accused me of commenting anonymously on my own posts, just to stir the pot.  No.  It is not true.  I’ve never done either.  Though good, dramatic writing sometimes merits a few embellished details, like rounding up the number of stairs I climb each day from 107 to an even 110, the the stories on this blog are founded in truth.  This kind of stuff really does happen to me, and here’s how you can know:  My imagination is not all that great.  I couldn’t make up these stories.***

So there I am, all gussied up in my Sunday best…

Image from here.

…Poor Kyle’s on the pew next to me, and I’m laughing at the fact that we’re sitting on a “pew.”  [Okay, not really.  I got over that childishness a long time ago.]  A nice lady is at the pulpit giving a spiritual talk, because that’s how we roll in the Mormon church—everyone gets to have a go at preaching.  [Not really.  But sort of.  It’s actually kind of complicated.  Feel free to drop me a line if you have questions about how it works.]

Anyway, Poor Kyle and I are sitting there reverently, listening to the speaker, when suddenly, amidst the congregation, I hear a distinct “Snip.” High-pitched and tinny, it sounded strangely like…well…like fingernail clippers at work.

“It couldn’t be,” I thought, “Who in their right mind would clip their nails at church?  Surely it’s just a random noise.”

“Snip.”

“Snip…  Snip.” And just like that, all sense of reverence I might have been feeling flies out the proverbial window, and my mind becomes consumed with the desire to make sense of the situation.  Who is doing this?  Is it seriously for real?  Why do they think that is appropriate behaviour? {Note: I, myself, have been called out on my INAPPROPRIATE, DISTRACTING, AND ABOMINABLY WHORISH BEHAVIOUR before at church, so I consider myself an expert on “how to act while sitting through a sermon.”}

I elbow Poor Kyle in the poor ribs and whisper, “Did you hear that?”

He furrows his bushy eyebrows at me, giving me one of “The Looks” that implies I’m not acting my age when I should be.

“Hear what?” he demands quietly.

“…Snip…”

“That!  That snip!”  I’m trying to whisper, but it’s hard to remember to use my inside voice when my brain is screaming STOP SNIPPING YOUR FINGERNAILS IN CHURCH! at the anonymous clipper sitting somewhere behind me.

“Someone is clipping her nails at church!”

Poor Kyle looks at me like I’m embarrassing him—another expression I’ve learned to interpret over the past 16 months of marriage to a man who doesn’t like any attention on him whatsoever.

“Just listen,” I whisper, “she’ll do it again.”

“…Snip…”

“See?!  Did you hear it?” It is blatantly obvious; I am elated to have proof, so Poor Kyle will stop looking at me like I’m growing antennae from my eyeballs.

“…Snip…”

He hears it, and nods his head.  It is the sound of fingernails being clipped.

I am smug, but at the same time completely perplexed on so many levels.

I, of all people, understand the value of a short set of nails—but mercy!  There’s a time and a place for everything.  At least, that’s what I was taught.

By this time, I have pinpointed the culprit (and none too stealthily, either—I’m pretty sure I’ve been staring), and I believe it’s a teenage girl sitting with her parents.  I am baffled:  Why does her mother not put an end to the persistent snipping?  Why has the lass chosen now to clip her nails?  Why does she even have clippers with her?  {I can’t find my nail clippers on a good day, let alone carry them with me at all times.}  What kind of person is she?

“…Snip…”

Furthermore, it seems she is giving herself a full-on manicure, right here in the middle of the church meeting.  I suppose I could understand clipping a wayward broken nail—those buggers snag on clothes and are certainly irritating—but she’s been snipping for five minutes straight.  How many nails does she have, anyway?  Last I checked, people have ten fingers (give or take a few), and even at two snips—maybe three—per nail, the entire process should take 60 seconds.  But no; this girl is a chronic clipper.  She’s clearly obsessive-compulsive/anal retentive when it comes to her nail clippings, because this process seems to be never-ending.

I’m compelled to send her mental messages, in the hopes that she will catch one and get the hint that she should stop her incessant snipping:  “For heaven’s sake, child,” I think loudly, “Pack around a file, too, if you’re going to bring your clippers; don’t do all your fine-tuning with such blatant ‘snips.’  It’s unbecoming!”

She continues, “…Snip…  Snip…”

What a pity.  Nobody listens to my brain-waves anymore…

***Post face*** I know the sound of nail-clipping drives some people bonkers; it’s not one of my pet peeves, but I can only imagine how some members of the congregation might have been getting annoyed with the situation.  I, myself, was more fascinated than anything else.  I couldn’t believe such a thing was happening.***

Is it just me, or is this situation really bizarre?

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