For the first time ever, I had a pedicure. I had not gone before because the thought of somebody (somebody not committed to me as a life-long feet rubbing partner that is) touching my feet did not really feel right. Pedicurists, I imagined, ranked right up there with dumpster divers and Bolivian silver miners as hard-knock jobs. I mean having to touch sweaty, toe-linty, hairy, callused, blistered, foot-fungi-filled feet is just wrong. Wrong!
Fortunately for my pedicurist, I do not have any foot disease at the moment. And I shaved my toes. So I went in with an open mind.
Several things led me to getting a pedicure.
-Everyone I know raves about them.
-My life-long feet-rubbing partner is sick of feet rubbing with no return on investment.
-My sister-in-law is treating!
-I am carrying many, many extra pounds right now. 30 extra pounds of pure banana bread,errr, baby weight, have done a number on my feet and calves. They are really quite pissy and crampy most of the time these days and since they don’t make PMS-style pills for feet, they need some old fashioned pampering. Old fashioned pampering includes strobe-light pools of jet-bubbled bathy goodness, vibrations from my back/butt massage chair, and some chemically enhanced psycho coloured nail polish.
Add scrubbing, rubbing, and massuesing onto it after a glorious steam bath and a green tea, and who knew how good my feet could feel. Hell, who knew how good my preggo body could feel?
So would I go again? Hell yes. Especially if somebody else foots the bill (heehee, yes I meant to be extraordinarily hilarious)
The nailpolish name was Catherine the Grape, but I hereby dub thee “Goth Purple”. I picked it for Kaya who is into all things dark and scary (monsters, spiders, tunnels, black felts only, mud puddles…)
Mamma knows best because she loves them. I have not been allowed to wear socks for days now.