A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that I don’t like to spend money on myself. I much prefer spending money on an oil change and reaping the coffee and recliner side effects than going shopping for a new outfit (I go into instant overload when I walk into a clothing store), buying a cute new wallet (Lord knows I could use one!) or getting a pedicure. I have 327 other uses for that money that are more immediate and a new outfit (#328), a cute wallet (#329) and a pedicure (#330) simply don’t qualify.
Buuuuut, due to a series of well meaning podcasts from the “You Need To Take Care Of Yourself” gurus, I succumbed to the pressure and sprung the thirty bucks for a pedicure about a week before my back went out.
When I walked in the door and was told, “Hi! Pedicure? Choose your color! Someone will be right with you!”, I debated between going with a standard burgundy, swinging out with black and glittery gold for the soccer team, or getting a trendy blue to mimic my friend Shannon’s summer vacation toes.
I had secretly been jealous of her toes but wimped out and opted for 90’s burgundy then climbed into the well used massage chair, gazed at the inside of my eyelids, soaked my feet in slice of blue, bubbly heaven and searched for inner peace.
But then I lost myself in the country music video and tried not to gag at the scantily clad women on the big screen and had to coach myself to stay in the moment.
The gurus whispered: Enjoy the foot rub. Feel the exfoliation. Try not to kick the lady in the face when she rams the sharp object into the corner of my big toe. Thumb through a sleazy magazine. Wonder what the foot woman is saying to the nail guy. Consider brushing up on my Korean. Suppress the laughter at seeing a cheese grater being used on my heels.
Notice that lots of people come in all at once for pedicures. Notice there are no more technicians. Notice they get the same, “Hi! Pedicure? Choose your color! Someone will be right with you!” Notice the nail salon patriarch, Grandpa Pedicure, come out of the wings, hair askew, possibly just dragged out of his recliner chair at home by an emergency call to come give a pedicure.
And much too soon, after my toenails were cuticle crunched, oiled, cleaned, clipped and painted, I did the obligatory sit-my-feet-under-the-fan-light routine for-EVER, gratefully donned the flimsy foam footwear and clumsily carried my clogs to the car. (Say that ten times fast).
A few hours later is where this story takes a turn for the worse…
And that’s where I’m going to leave you hanging until Part 2, tomorrow.
P.S. I don’t have any contracts with Sally Hansen, just so you know.
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