The Maniconundrum

I have a love/hate relationship with getting manicures. That seems complex, Allison, you're saying. But here's why.
1. You walk in and everyone stares at you. Sometimes you'll get a smile and a 'hi,' but I find it incredibly awkward yelling "Umm...a manicure?" over the sound of tacky nail art machines buzzing only to wonder if anyone has heard me or where I should go.
2. The WHERE THE HELL DO I LOOK??? issue. Seriously. With a pedicure, you can read or text or even close your eyes and lean back while the uncomfortable, "my back isn't a set of bongos, thanks" massage chair works its painful magic. But with a manicure there's 7 inches between your eyes and her face. You can choose to watch her meticulously, as she works each nail, but I'm afraid I'll make her nervous. So I do an exceedingly Asperger-esque constant head turning, eye-darting dance in order to "not make her feel pressured." So maybe I overthink it. But where do NORMAL people rest their eyes?
3. Oh my God, paying. They always seem to ask meekly, as if it's an option, "You can pay me now?" So I whip out my wallet and ask how much, because they never say outright, and then I have to do ridiculous math in my head. Not the normal kind of math. The kind of math where I almost pop a blood vessel worrying that I'm suddenly money-dyslexic and I haven't tipped enough. This generally leads to tips around 60%. I will spend the next ten minutes, however, still wondering. "Did I REALLY give that much? Or was that a dollar bill instead of a five? OMG, what if she thinks I'm cheap?" (growing up as a Jew your biggest fear is being thought of as cheap. Although you probably are)
4. The post-mani waiting period. Out in California, I have yet to enter a nail salon with those nifty- and I thought, normal- hand-drying stations, you know, where you sit and put your hands in the marked spaces in the air tunnel with UV light that somehow doesn't give you hand cancer. No, in California, you remain in your seat, they put the least powerful mini fan possible six feet away from your drying polish, and then disappear. As in...you will never see the nail artist again. Not that day, not on your next visit, not ever. It's like I have a one-time-use policy with nail technicians. Anyway, no one will tell me when I'm done 'drying,' i.e. that toddler over there is sick of half-heartedly blowing on my hands, and I worry about sitting there too long and taking up space/looking overly concerned and prissy (what? someone overly concerned about EVERYTHING is worried about looking overly concerned?). But what if I leave too early and they all think "pssh, she must think she's invincible!" or worse yet, I smudge the color?

Oh, but hey, there's nothing like the heavily-lotioned hand massage and the delicious feeling of being pampered.

In a nutshell: I live my life awkwardly worried for no reason and, hence, am the strangest, most self-absorbed person ever.