The woes of a broken heart, masking as a manicure tirade

I guess some things never get easier. Like trimming the nails on your right hand. Why is it so difficult? Even though I display a few more ambidextrous tendencies than the average girl (or at least I fake it with my propensity for eating continental style), it never is a joy. Oh, sometimes you get lucky. You're ready for it, because you do plan to trim your nails after your hands have soaked in the bathtub for a bit, so things are a little more pliable. Sometimes, you get off easy and it doesn't look like someone has taken a hack-saw to the hand you write with. But then there are those days when you break a nail, and being a slave to symmetry as I am, you have to trim every digit down to the quick. Makes playing the piano easier; makes wearing en-vogue black nail polish less garish; but it brings on the frustration of being reminded of one's own limitations. My left hand looks fine, even. My right hand is a mess-- all jagged edges.
So here it is-- I'm single and ready to mingle once again. Except that I'm not. One month and a few days of coupledom have apparently handicapped me socially despite 88 previous prospects. I'm a little lost. At first it was quite easy to put on the brave face and tell everyone that I was a victim of circumstance and geography. It felt all right because I felt the same, and felt secure in my non-existent relationship. But today I got a bit of a reminder that I don't belong to anyone anymore, or that if I do, it's not the same give-and-take it was a week ago. My hands with the jagged nails feel empty.
And to all those tsk-tsking my frankness, offering up honesty won't make my nails grow back any faster, but at least typing a blog lets me remember I still have fingers.