I suspect everyone has small vanities.
Little things they like to keep perfect, or as near as they can get.
One of my small vanities was my fingernails. When I was young, they were frequently admired. Not my hands, though. Just the nails.
I seldom wore nail polish, as I could never stand the suffocation my fingers seemed to feel, with the varnish cutting off the air supply.
My nails are not so nice now, they are not as smooth or strong as they were. I no longer consider them a 'vanity' matter.
Now I try not to think of them, gone forever, as they are.
In fact some days I rather feel I resemble a Troll who has lost her bridge!
I have a social family event coming up, and am wondering how to make myself presentable.
Which brings me to another small vanity.
I have a nickname I am comfortable with, I feel more 'myself' in this name. I dislike my given name, I don't feel 'me' in that name. I really really dislike my second given name!
Noone, apart from older family members call me by my given name, thank goodness.
In the social family event, my daughter asked if I would be a Witness for her, then she mentioned it would involve my full 'real' names being used and read aloud publicly. She was worried I could not stand this to happen.
I told her it is a small vanity, and I could never be so 'vain' about it as to let it alter her plans.
One by one, our vanities seem to go, as we age. My handwriting used to be nice and neat. Now it is barely legible, even to me! Thankgoodness for computers, and typing.
A family story which delights me every time I think about it, concerns my father, and his grandfather. My Great Grandfather was, apparently very vain about his nose. I have no idea why. Perhaps he considered it to be much better looking than other noses in the family. There were some honking large noses about, to be sure, but I am not sure which side of the family they came from. Perhaps it was his, and he considered himself very fortunate to have escaped the large version himself.
When my father was a child, he was weilding a knife for some reason, which family legend has never really explained. Greatgrandfather was a very skilled cabinet maker of some great pride and perhaps he was instructing the young grandson.
As he was instructing the youngster to "Never cut up Boy! Never cut up!" my father gave a huge lunge upwards with the knife to sever some cord, (as near as we can tell from the legend!) and lo! He cut his grandfather's nose!
Of course his Grandfather was so horrified he never forgave the boy, and so he fell out of favour with both his Grandparents, because his grandmother, who was married to the grandfather with the princely nose, could never abide my father nor his sister, and she frequently referred to my Aunt as "The limb of Satan".
My father, aged around two, once almost hung himself on a cord of a blind on a French door, and apparently Greatgrandmother thought it hugely comical, as he hung gasping for air, off the step at the verandah.
There were older siblings, who were in favour, and later younger siblings who were also in favour. I have no idea why the middle two were so disliked.
Family stories can be so fascinating. I wonder how I will be remembered, when I am gone.
On a hike to a medical facility, I noticed this strong funghi growing up through the detritus on the ground.
I was quite amazed to think how much strength it had, to push aside the twigs.
The life force is very strong.
Sheryl Crow. Every Day is a Winding Road. One of my favourite songs.