grrlTravels

Is preparation the key to a successful pedicure?

Right now I have very long toenails. And there is a good reason for that. Generally scrupulous about my personal care, I am letting them grow. Because I want to have a pedicure in anticipation of our upcoming vacation. And I think it's the proper procedure but I have no way of knowing for sure.

The History
My mother was not a "girly girl" during my formative years. She didn't wear makeup or perfume or even nail polish while we were growing up. She didn't pierce her ears until after I did. She didn't like jewelry or fancy clothes or shoes. And neither did I. I still don't wear makeup or do my hair with any regularity. I do not own a bottle of perfume right now (much to K.'s chagrin), the last I had having been around so long that it was retired because it really didn't smell like anything any more. When I shave I generally get lots of little bumps and have no idea how to get rid of them; hair removal creams and self tanning lotions stymie me.

The Debacle
A few years back now K. got me what he thought would be a great Christmas gift. He was excited to give it to me, to see my reaction. I opened it. A big old gift certificate to a spa. Enough for a whole day of pampering.

I'm not sure exactly what my reaction was. (He could tell you--I'm sure he remembers it well.) I'm sure I tried to smile and say thank you through my smily clenched teeth. Because there was no way that I was ever going to that spa.

Too intimidating. K., never one to skimp on a present, went out and found a Very Nice Spa. Full of bitchy rich women having spa treatments for lack of anything better to do. I would rather remove all of my fingernails personally than go to that spa. Scary. Daunting. Unknown. And remaining that way.

Thus began the conversations. "You should go." "It will be fun." "You'll enjoy it." "The girls on the phone sounded nice, not scary at all." No. Way. Was. I. Going. To. That. Spa.

I still have that gift certificate. Because I was raised to appreciate gifts given to me. We did not return gifts in my family. We may not have worn them or used them or loved them, but we did not return them. No returning a gift certificate at any rate. One time K. tried to sell it to a friend of ours. Another time he tried to give it away. But I still have it. A little slip of love from K. that I am too insecure to cash in.

The Pedicure
Years passed. And I decided that really, a pedicure wasn't all that scary or intimidating or threatening. So last summer I made an appointment. I wish I could say that it was easier than making that first appointment to see the gynecologist, but I'm not sure which one wins out. But I've decided I'm a grown woman and I am going to have this pedicure and I'm not going to fret about it either.

Only I suddenly realize that I don't know the protocol. I don't know the little ins and outs of pedicures. All of these little rituals have unwritten rules, and I dread messing up. Because I may look stupid and all of the woman in the salon may laugh at me behind my back, you see. But I also don't have anyone to ask, so I just go to the appointment and hope for the best. The girl comes out of the back and says, "Did you pick a color?" Panic, pure and simple. "I want them French," I tell her and dodge the bullet. She looks disappointed and pouty. I hope for the best.

I say as brightly as I can, "This is my first pedicure." And the girl looks at me with the most bored look in the world and says, "What's the big occasion for your first pedicure?" you freak of nature who is having her first pedicure at the ripe old age of 38. Unfortunately, the big occasion doesn't really qualify, being the wedding of my cousins, which I am simply attending. I tell her and hope for the best.

I put my feet in the bubbly water. She turns on the massage chair and leaves and I try to relax. I feel like my bones are rattling a little too much and spend most of the relaxing bubbly time trying to figure out the chair and feeling dumb for not being able to figure out how to turn it off. I slide my feet around in the water, trying to find a comfortable position where my lower back doesn't ache. I wonder idly what all the fuss is about.

She comes back and starts to massage my feet. She won't look at me. I begin to squirm and wonder what I should do. Is it improper to make eye contact at this critical juncture? Is it weird to have someone you have never met rubbing your lower legs? I don't know when to move my feet around and she yanks at them. I spend the time hoping that I shaved well and there aren't little ankle hairs poking about. As the piles of skin are sloughed off my feet I try to look elsewhere. Also, the part where the toe jam is removed leaves me apprehensive. Did I prepare adequately for this? Should I have been home this morning removing my own toe jam? Finally, the polish. Thank goodness for the familiar polish. And The End.

So back for more?
True, my feet were nice and buffed and my toes did look pretty. Even K. said so. And now we are going to Florida this week and I want pretty toes and there's only one way to get them. Sigh.

Posted by grrlTravels at October 30, 2004 10:15 PM