eenie, meenie, minie, TOE!

The Universe has been telling me lately, that I NEED to take better care of myself. From my unretouched roots, to my dark under- eye circles, it is obvious, that I have been looking after everything in my life, but ME. (Hey, I considered ordering the free trial size of Hydrolize off TV, but I didn’t have time, and besides, I forgot where I wrote down the number... probably on the back of a bill, or something… Oh, back to Hydrolize, isn't it supposed to DRAMATICALLY reduce under eye circles and age spots? I am not sure. One thing IS for sure. I don’t need any more DRAMA in my life! Negative, on the Hydrolize... )

As I drove home from work today, I faintly recalled a rule here in the South, a rule that requires you to get a pedicure before May 1st. This goes something like, the “No wearing white after Labor Day” rule… Also, I believe in Karma, and I faintly recall laughing cruelly last year at a GORGEOUS woman, walking in front of me downtown, in a designer skirt and cracked heels. Click, click, ICK!

On impulse, I decide to stop and get a pedicure at my neighborhood Vietnamese nail salon. I walk up to the counter and select a hot little OPI color, “Mexico”, and wait for Lin Chung, who usually does the pedicures, to open up.

What? She’s busy? Ok…

The husband of the lady who runs the salon comes forward and directs me to the other pedicure chair. At least, I THINK that is what he said. His accent sounds a bit like a cat…Meow. Meow. It is getting close to 6 PM, and they probably want to get out of there soon… I begin to roll my pant legs up, when I notice this strange aura projecting about ½” from my leg, a bit like a halo.

Oh Dear God!

I realize I have forgotten to shave… evidently I gave it up for Lent, and either surging hormones or Jesus must have caused the hair to grow even FASTER!
There is only one thing to do. I pretend NOT to notice.

I climb up in the chair, bitterly eyeing the twenty something beside me in Lin Chung’s chair. Mr. Vietnamese Nail Man begins to systematically dip my feet into the hot, soapy water. He uses the pumice- like device to scrub the dead skin off the bottom. It must not work very well, because he puts me back into soak. This is NOT a good sign.

When he comes back, he begins to sand and sand and sand. He looks around the salon, like he is looking for something. I am afraid that he is looking for a belt sander, a meat grinder, something to make his job easier…

Then, he begins to sand my arches. Now, one thing about a pedicure that is VERY embarrassing for me, is the fact that I amVERY ticklish. With every scrape, I wince and suck my breath in. I try acting stoic, but it is impossible. My knee convulses, and I almost kick him in the chin. “I have VERY ticklish arches,” I offer lamely. (Mr. Vietnamese Nail Man looks at me absently, as if I have said NOTHING. This is something that is happening more FREQUENTLY as I approach 50 years old. HELLO???) He does NOT seem to understand; my eyes plead with Lin Chung to translate. She is busy painting the toes next door a garish shade of pink. Hell, she is probably getting a DECAL, for goodness sake!

After the sexual assault on my feet has been completed, I relax a bit, smoking my Winston Light. Mr. Vietnamese Nail Man begins to use the blade-like device, which operates much like the infamous Pedi-egg. (You know, the LAST time I checked at Wal-Mart, the Pedi-egg device only comes in an average chicken-egg size, evidently, none were laid by ostriches.) Back to my pedicure… In Vietnam, they must feed the skin to the chickens, instead of the skin to the egg. Here, at Starr Nails, there is NO skin gathering device and the chunks fall around me like flies dropping on old fruit. This part of the pedicure gives me the willies… I am always afraid I am going to lose a toe.

After my size 7 ½ feet have been whittled down to a petite size 5, he commences to massage my calves. Yes, the same calves that I forgot to shave. In my mind, I am compassionate and I say "No, never mind. I am sSO sorry I forgot to shave today. " But no, we or at least, I , am in denial of this fact. I imagine that he is wincing, as if my bristly leg hairs are inflicting actual pain on him. No, correction … he WAS wincing. Either that, or a Vietnamese sigh resembles an expression of disgust. I really couldn’t tell…

Then, he slaps me with a hot towel, perhaps a little harder than necessary. “Take that, white American pee-ee-eeg, and THAT, and THAT!”

MEOW!

Then , finally comes the rusty brilliance of OPI “Mexico”. The color slides on my toes, smooth like a Yucatan sunset. (I have never seen a Yucatan sunset, but we can always dream, right?) The door exiting the salon, beckons to me like a mirage. Could it be? Am I ALMOST done?

NO! NO! Here comes the rubber foot thingies and the plastic toe splayers. One is pink, the other is orange. He weaves them in and out of my toes, like he is playing a game... “If she hollers, let her go, eenie, meenie , miney, TOE! My- mother –told- me –to- pick- this- one, YOU!"

Me, again…

I waddle over to the drying area, and hide my shame, I mean my feet, beneath the fluorescent blue glow.

A few minutes later, I am through. Completed. Spent. I CANNOT put on my shoes, for fear of smearing “Mexico” into my brown winter mules. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight. I leave Mr. Vietnamese Man a $5 tip, if only for having to touch my disgusting legs. I begin to slither through the parking lot, scrunching my toes, but am unable to hold the rubber thingies on my feet. It is like walking while holding a piece of paper beneath your feet. I think I also forgot to roll my pants legs back down. After glancing around to be sure there is no one I recognize, I resort to a tactic, that allows me to stop every few feet to adjust. I am thinking, it’s a good thing I am such a great actress…

“Oh, here I am, stopping for traffic…”

“Oh, look at me, I forgot where I parked my car…”

“Oh, here I am, the “Thinker”, contemplating going in the grocery store...”

By Tuesday, I have made it to my car. Maybe no one noticed that it took, like, two days…

Relieved, I shed the rubber foot thingies, and for a minute or two, I feel SO much better. Then, I realize the joke is on me, another delusion. My last few ounces of dignity were already shed in the parking lot. The foot thingies were just a formality.

I crank the car, and get the hell outta there. I am going home to shave my legs!