I’m just into the first interview in Judd Apatow’s book—it’s with Jerry Seinfeld. Apatow’s trying to extract the secret sauce of comedy, and I feel like a fly on the wall. I’m fascinated by the mechanics of humor, how comedians take something ordinary and make it unforgettable.
Talking about watching a guy catch a bullet in his teeth, Jerry says, “I see a thing, and you go ‘what the hell is that?’ I don’t know what’s funny about that, but I think to myself, ‘There is something funny about that.’”
Minutes after reading that, I got a text from Verizon asking me to rate my store visit. Curious how aligned our experiences were, I asked Dave what he had selected. I’d chosen the safe, shrugging option: “Neither satisfied nor dissatisfied.” We still had broken screens, and the salesperson hadn’t been upfront about the full cost. But Dave’s response surprised me: “Very satisfied.”
Then he added, “But did you see his nails?”
And suddenly, it clicked. A Jerry Seinfeld moment.
In fact, I had noticed them. When the sales guy sent the authorization text, my phone lay face-up on the table between us. Before I could tap anything, he’d said, “I’ll go ahead and get that.” He extended his hand—model-like, moisturized, but the nail… a crescent moon too long, coated in a thick, shiny lacquer. It looked like epoxy resin. Not polish. A full-on seal.
What the hell is that?
I’d registered the contrast—the deep brown of his fingers against the pale, light-catching nail—but hadn’t clocked the grow-out. Dave had. He later pointed to the regrowth, like a woman overdue for a root touch-up.
So… what’s funny about that?
Because, like Jerry said, something is funny about it.
Is he an aspiring hand model? A recent grad taking a gap summer? It’s July 18th—if school ended in late May, that nail has had about 48 days to grow. At 0.1 mm/day, that’s 4.8 mm—roughly the thickness of five stacked credit cards, or the pink part of a paper matchstick.
You get where I’m going?
The math adds up. He’s clearly racking up hand hours. Maybe that swipe on my phone counted toward his internship. When I was training to be a mental health counselor, I needed 1,500 clinical hours. I logged everything—face-to-face time, phone calls.
Maybe he has a printed calendar too, marking down each client interaction with tiny ticks. At month’s end, they get totaled and signed off by a supervisor.
I wonder: Was I one of his hours?
I hope he does need me to come back for a signature. I’m all game. Happy to help him rack up hours on his way to the big time — whatever that is. A Rolex commercial? A luxury lotion campaign? The gloved hand of a magician’s assistant? Wherever he’s headed, I hope he makes it.
Thanks for dropping by. As always, love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 