Little Love #5: Toothpicks

Little Love Number Five: Toothpicks

I have the gross and sometimes-painful habit of picking at my skin. I can't remember exactly when it started, but I do remember accidentally drawing blood on my little finger when I was maybe six years old. Though it's probably not a very healthy practice, I've never been too worried about it: I'm not ingesting chemicals, and I'm not shaping my life around my finger-picking. Should I ever decide to become a serious guitarist, I'll already have killer calluses to back it up.

In the numerous times I've tried to quit this habit, though, I've noticed one consistent crutch: toothpicks. Having a toothpick to fiddle with means that I don't have to torture my fingers raw. Instead, I can focus all my nervous energy into chewing on a tiny piece of wood, all the while improving my periodontal health. In college—an especially nervous period—toothpicks helped me bite my way through countless classes and essays. In fact, I think my best piece of academic prose was born between several mangled toothpicks in a Panera in Cambridge.

Until I manage to swallow a splinter (à la Sherwood Anderson), it's not a bad trade-off.