Decades of Terror: I Can't Get a Pedicure

Forgive me, sophisticated mamas, for I have sinned. And I don’t EVEN want to say it because it is yet another reason at the advanced age of over-35 that I struggle with being a girl. Woman, sorry. OK, here we go, 1-2-3: I’VE NEVER HAD A PEDICURE AND I’M EXTRAORINARILY UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THE IDEA. Shhhew, that feels better.

Lest I be misunderstood so quickly, the last person to reduce femaleness to grooming luxuries is I, clearly. But everybody’s doin’ it. What it comes down to is paying (I call it forcing) someone to handle your disgusting feet.

I’m not saying your feet are disgusting, but maybe mine are. I love flip-flops, I stand a lot, and perhaps have been shamed a little by a touch of stinky foot family history.

Getting my nails done is a total joy. The manicurist and I sit eye-to-eye creating a more equalized, intimate experience. And it’s like holding hands, which I love and I once became so visibly relaxed during the hand massage portion that the manicurist confessed it was her favorite part as well and then we had sex in the waxing room.

Just kidding! It made me aware of the toll it must take on your body to work in a busy salon and I gained sincere appreciation and compassion for this job. THEN we had sex in the waxing room. God, what’s wrong with me? Oh, yes, I’m too neurotic and immature to get a pedicure, right.

What I don’t want is someone banished beneath me, scrubbing, dremel-ing and cursing my pompous American feet while I iPhone my pals and read up on celebrity babies. Although damn, I love celebrity babies and would die without my phone.

Help me. Cute feet mustn’t continue to evade me. I need tips, advice, someone to come with me, a new spin on salon workers not being forced at gunpoint to make my heels smooth. I’m telling you guys, I’m a full-time job over here.