Mm, good coffee,” said my next door neighbor, Virginia, pushing aside the folded laundry on my couch. “What kind? And what’d you do to your finger?” “You noticed,” I said gingerly holding my cup between my thumb and third finger. “Chocolate Raspberry and I bit my nail and cuticle back too far.” “You’re a nail biter?” she asked. “Yeah,” I admitted. “It’s my life-long, childhood habit.” “When do you do it?” she asked, leaning over the coffee table and eyeballing me. I straightened a little. “When do I do what? Make flavored coffee? Only when you come over. Bill doesn’t like it. He says it is women’s coffee.” “Your nails, silly,” she said, laughing. “When do you bite your nails?” I shrugged. “How do I know? All the time, I guess. If I don’t bite them, I pick them off. It really only hurts when I get them too short or get an infection.” Virginia gasped. “You got an infection from biting your nails?” “Uh-huh,” I said, “It happens when my wounded little fingers go swimming in dishwater.” I tried to be nonchalant, but Virginia wouldn’t turn loose. “I’ll help you quit,” she volunteered. “It’s a lost cause,” I countered. “I’ve tried to quit all my life. When I was a little girl my aunt offered me five dollars to quit, but I couldn’t.” “Well, for the next two weeks I’m going to come over every morning and give you a manicure,” she announced. “Together we’re going to kick your habit!” “Every morning?” I said in disbelief. “What do you think you’re going to manicure, the ends of my fingers?” “You’ll see,” she said. “I’ll stay just long enough to do your nails.” — beliefnet.com