This blog is dedicated with deep gratitude to Aunt B, who treated me to my first-ever pedicure before I left Maryland. I don't know why I waited so long to have one, but it may have something to do with the fact that:
1) I hate my feet; and
2) See previous.
I've had issues with my feet ever since I was a young, impressionable teenager and I was told I had feet "like a duck." This is actually true in a way: My feet get wider the further they get from my heels, and they have large spaces between all the toes. If I focus, I can spread them out almost like fingers. It's very weird. I used to hate wearing flip-flops because people were always commenting on the big spaces between my toes, as if I didn't know about them. "Oh look!" they'd say. "You have such big spaces between your toes!"
It was like telling me I had brown eyes. Believe me, I already knew
So my feet were sort of a sore point for me, often literally. During my backpacking adventures in New Zealand, I lost not one, but three toenails. They eventually grew back, but then I went to the Middle East, and spent a good portion of my short time there walking around in shoes that fit badly (a prevailing theme of my existence), meaning that I ended up with cuts and blisters all over my feet. Those eventually healed, in time for me to again damage my podiatric extremities by running a half-marathon last year which claimed yet another toenail (after bruising it very unattractively).
My feet, in short, have looked pretty bad for the past few years, and the absolute last thing I ever wanted to do was subject some poor stranger to the awful task of touching them and making them presentable.
But when Aunt B suggested it, I had to admit I was interested. My toenails were (finally) all present and accounted for, and I thought that maybe it would be nice to have my feet massaged and pampered a little. After all, I've put them through a lot in my life. They'd more than earned some TLC.
So we headed to a spa called (a little presumptuously) "Paradise," in Mt. Airy, Maryland. I guess it's called that because there are pictures of palm trees painted on the walls inside. And palm trees, as we all know, are a paradisiacal requirement. Anyway, they were able to take us immediately, so first we had to choose a nailpolish color (I almost didn't, being utterly overwhelmed by about fifty different shades of red alone). Then we sat in massage chairs and our pedicurists got to work.
I was a tad anxious about the fact that the pedicurists started out wearing surgical masks. But the massage chair made it hard to stay worried about anything for very long (no doubt that's why they have them).
Finally, after a blissfully relaxing half hour, my toenails were trimmed, smoothed, and colorful, and my feet felt minty-fresh and soft. Just in time for getting on the plane back to southern California...
Now here I am, back home and in bed at 2 in the afternoon, nursing a sore throat and determinedly not doing all the reading and writing that I am already behind on for my graduate program.
But at least my feet are pretty!