I OBVIOUSLY have a different form of relaxation and pampering than, oh say, 98% of the female population because I have now learned that pedicures ARE NOT MY THING. Yowsers. Prior to today I have had 1. It was either before my senior prom or before my wedding. I can't remember much (that's how momentous it was) but I do vaguely remember sitting in the chair while someone whiddled away at my feet and thinking I would never do it again. Then I saw one of those expose Datelines or 48 Hours shows that showed all the undercover nastiness in those foot spa pool things that you're required to soak in. According to that show they clean them about every never and then you get gangrene and die a slow painful death. Again I vowed not to ever get one. Until today...
In thinking of my next 2 weeks on vacation I thought it would be nice to not have to worry about the state of my toes (though I typically don't worry too much about them anyway) so I'd get them professionally done.
Should have taken that thought captive. Dang it.
I took the Girl with me for moral support and made her walk in ahead of me in case they pounced (that's the kind of selfless Mom I am). They asked how they could help (or at least that's what I assumed they said through THICK accents) and I said, "Well, here's the thing, I've not done this in a really long time, and I'm not sure how........." Seeing no signs of understanding in the eyes looking at me (and there were MANY), I quickly surmised I must speak in one word sentences.
Ahhhhhh. Sweet understanding. He told me to pick a color and I just stood there. Do I just say "Pink" and assume he knows what shade I mean? He asks me again and I just nod and say profoundly: "Pink."
Though I'm 31, I still can't handle being laughed at. Then he points to a wall and says for the 3rd time, "Pick color." Ahhh. Come Little One, let us embark on our color picking journey. Then he points to a chair. Do I stand next to it? Do I hop aboard? TELL ME PEOPLE... I NEED DIRECTION HERE. I get in, after his prompting, and he fires up the massage chair. After about 2 minutes of working on my feet, he rolls backward on his stool and says "I no work until you relax." Was it that obvious I was dying a slow internal anxiety-filled death in that chair? Must have been.
I survived the war he engaged upon my feet and after sitting them under a dryer, I go to pay. Here's the kicker, folks. PEDICURES COST MONEY! Now I knew it would cost something, but I sure as heck never saw "$25 dollar please" coming! I panicked, thought quickly about grabbing a bottle of polish remover and saying "Just kidding, didn't want one" while running out the door. Thankfully, I didn't. I pulled out the money ever so slowly and thought about the MANY MANY MANY important items I could have purchased for $25: diapers, food, 1/2 tank of gas, 1 ticket plus lunch at Summer Waves, etc etc etc. But no friends. That darn $25 went to pay for toe-flippin-polish.
It better last until Christmas.