I went to the spaaaaaaaaaaaa (I say it just like that, you know, because it is FANCY with more As) today and had a pedicure. It was lovely. An extremely gay man checked me in and took my jacket and fetched me a cup of coffee, and after a bit a sweet young thing took me into the nail room. I arranged myself in the big chair (heated herbal neck wrap! aahhhh!) and stuck my winter-hardened, craggy feet into the bubbly whirlpool.
I leaned back, sighed, and told the nail girl that I loved her. I think she was scared.
I drank my coffee and read my book and tried not to flinch or scream while she sanded twelve pounds of dead skin off of my feet.
In the next chair sat a woman whom the coffee-fetching gay man and all of the nail girls knew by name. She was clearly a regular. Unlike me, she knew exactly where to put her shoes, when to put her feet down into the water and when to bring them up, when to bend at the knee and when to keep her leg straight. Me, I was an uncooperative mannequin, guessing wrong more than half the time.
She also had what looked (to my untrained eye) like a perfect pedicure when she ARRIVED. No matter. Now she was having OPI I’m Not Really A Waitress applied. Given her aura of privilege, I seriously doubted anyone would ever mistake her for a waitress.
“What color would you like?” asked my kind and attentive foot servant. (Get it? Pedicure? Foot servant?) I started looking around for nail polish bottles, but she handed me a small plastic basket filled with clusters of fake nails. Each little rack of ten had ten different colors with the names written on a little tab to the side. Cute.
“I should’ve brought my dress,” I muttered, pawing through the basket’s contents, trying not to think of it as a basket of fingers, trying to remember exactly what the shade of pink in my dress looked like.
“Oh, where are you going?” she asked.
“I’m, uh, not going anywhere. I’m getting married on Friday.” Both nail girls and Ms. Spa in the chair next to me oohed and aahed and asked questions. All seemed disappointed with my answers (small ceremony, no reception, brief jaunt to the mountains to honeymoon). Oh, well. I was too busy trying to pick a color to be too concerned that I was not living up to the usual clientÃ¨le.
Finally I settled on Jewel of India. The nail girl nodded her acceptance and padded off to fetch the bottle.
I was sanded and rubbed and filed and trimmed and finally painted, and was pleased with the results. I don’t know if the polish job is worth the exorbitant fee of having it done at the spaaaaaa, but the hour of being pampered was well worth the price of admission. I carefully navigated the stairs, squishy foam toe separators still in place, and drove home with the utmost of care. No need to risk smudging my toes with a sudden stop, or anything.
It wasn’t until about an hour after I got back that I realized I’d left my jacket at the spaaaaaaaa. Whoops!
Fortunately, we’re going back for manicures on Friday, so I can get it then. Of course, I’m going to be even MORE distracted on Friday, so I’m hoping I won’t leave anything else there. Like my kid. We’ll see.