It has been about 20 years since I have gotten a pedicure. I keep things bright and shiny down there, but the last time anyone took a cheese grater to my heels I was wearing tight rolled pants and a scrunchy.
I spiff the color up every few weeks in the summer time but since the children have come along, it’s more like a caulk job than painting. My toes are usually like a Picasso – from far away they look great, but up close they are a hot mess.
The kids are with their dad for the weekend and I had a gift certificate that a sweet friend gave me, so off I went to get gorgeous. Things are a little different now…
This tiny lady, the size of my ten year old daughter, walked me to a massage chair. I thought she would be gentle, but I quickly learned that with the power in those teeny hands, she could easily take down a Dallas Cowboy with one arm tied behind her back.
I had to pull my pant legs up to my knees because they put green goop all over my calves. It felt like Burts Bees, it burned in a cool way, and made my legs as soft as a baby’s bum. She scooped it from a barrel size mayonnaise jar, I may hit Costco tomorrow to see if they bought it there.
Along with the green goop, there were at least three different concoctions poured on my feet. In all fairness, it may have taken that many chemicals to get all the old paint off my toes but none of them have fallen off yet so I’m guessing I’m safe.
When I was all painted and lubed up, they put the toe spreaders on and waddled me to a table with blue lights everywhere. She said to dry my feet at the table, so I sat back and put my feet up to dry.
Another woman walked up to me, patted my shoulder and used little words to explain to the simpleton that my feet go under the table, not on top of it, where the blue lights would dry my polish. “So get feet off table, girl.”
After a dozen apologies, I sat there imagining how different pedicures will be the next time I get one in 20 years, and how I can’t take me anywhere…