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Happy Feet...I Got Those Happy Feet....and It Was Scary
My sister-God Bless her-started taking me last year for our (trumpets, please) "girls day out" to get a mani and a pedi. I think she felt pity on me and my short little stubby nails that I keep cut down to the quick, but that's what works for me. And I have to admit, the idea of pretty little nails that I wouldn't have to paint myself intrigued me. Add in the fact that I work 40 hours a week on my feet, and now wearing sandals, well, the tootsies were looking a little sad. Point blank, I wanted a pedicure more than anything. Not that I would ever admit to this, though-wild horses wouldn't drag it out of me. Hello? I have a tomboy image to maintain.
The idea of sitting in the big, poofy chair, with a hot tea or a glass of wine, (bwah hahahaha! Me & wine??), someone massaging my legs and feet, the idea seemed a bit like heaven.
Until I sat in the chair.
I've never been more terrified in my life.
First of all, it's a massage chair. Now, I've never been on the receiving end of a massage. The only time I'd ever sat in a massage chair, I'd been in a car accident and the damn thing felt like a bowling ball was rolling up and down the small of my back. Then the few times I had ever received a back rub from He Who Is My Daughter's Father, it was mostly done in the "fine, I'll rub your damn back" attitude, and  I felt like the person was going to break me in half, which usually pissed off the massage-er, and the back rub would never get finished.
After sitting in the chair-I remembered WHY I never got massages. Especially on my feet.
I neglected to mention the time He Who Is My Daughter's Father decided he was going to massage my feet. I still to this day have no idea why he wanted to do it-maybe to absolve himself of any further obligations to show affection-but suddenly, there he is, taking off my sock, and trying to rub my foot.
I say trying, because I had always warned him not to touch my feet, because I suffer from the bane of all afflictions.
I'm ticklish.
Despite my warnings of "Do not touch my feet. I'm not kidding you. I'm ticklish. I will kick you in the head! I mean it! Don't touc--" BAM!! He apparently thought I was kidding. Until my foot made contact with his head.
So yeah. Massages aren't really my thing.
But here I am, trying to bond with my sister, and sitting in this chair that feels like a wagon wheel is going up and down my spine, to the point its pushing me out of the chair at times...but I'm smiling like everything is ok. Just smile and wave, and wave. I could imagine the next day at work- "Angela, what happened to you?" "I was run over by the wagon train from Little House on the Prairie..."
I began to relax, though, after my sister explained a bit about what was going to be done to me-even thought I was adamant that I just wanted the basic treatments. I mean, really? You can't just throw me in there with all the bells and whistles and expect me to be calm about it. Foot soak? Seemed pretty harmless-warm bubbly water, scented sugar scrubs...yeah. I could get used to this.
And then she brought out the foot file.
Yeah. I have calluses on my feet. I work in retail. Eight hours a day or more, in sandals, so yeah. my feet were looking a bit rough. I mean, I"m no freaking Neanderthal, mind you. I do have some pride, but yeah, a professional needed to get involved.
But she brings out this thing that looks like a freakin' cheese grater and proceeds to start sawing away at the side of my big toe. Then after a few passes, she stops and reconsiders. Maybe it was the fact that she felt she should start slowly, maybe it was the fact that I nearly jumped out of my skin and screamed. You pick. I'm gonna go with the latter.
In the meantime, my sister is just sitting there, relishing the hot towel foot rub, making really awkward noises, while I'm sitting over here wondering why the lady is using things that look like they came out of my Dad's tool kit to trim my cuticles. I mean seriously. I've seen wire cutters that were smaller. So after sucking it up and feeling like I had Fred Flintstone's feet, the lady finally felt pity on me (or gave up) and appplied more lotions and creams, and the final hot sugar scrub that concluded with my own hot towel wrap.
Oh. My. Pie. Plus, I think I made a noise that He Who Shall Never Be Spoken Of Again would've been jealous of. Sorry, not sorry.
The ordeal wasn't a total loss, though, as I emerged with ten cute little toes, painted a delicate shade of purple, for the whole free world to see. Look at my toes...look at them...LOOOOOOK!!!!
It's just gonna be a minute before I go back. You gotta handle these things slowly.


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