My folks treated me to a pedicure tonight before our big trip to Kuwait, which will be underway in less than 72 hours. Before you picture my dad taking a belt sander and a blob of axel grease to each foot, I should clarify that my generous parents sent me to a spa for my treatment; this was not a d0-it-ourselves procedure.
It was a great, much-needed break to have my toes pampered. Beyond wanting my tootsies to be pretty for my fabulous new sandals, Momma also thought it would be ideal for my feet to be in the best possible condition before I subject them to the sand, wind and heat the desert has in store for me. Good call, lady. Now that my feet look gorgeous and my heels are smooth as vanilla yogurt, I feel a little more ready to take to the skies and journey across the world. Never mind that the only things in my suitcase so far are socks and undies: my feet look g-o-o-d.
Pedicures are always a relaxing experience, except for the ticklish parts. I hate having my feet touched and spend most of the buffing portion of the procedure burying my face in my elbow–a la Dracula–to keep my snorts and giggles at a minimal volume. The spa I visited today had a snazzy pedicure chair with a jet tub for my feet, which was a special treat all by itself, but I was not expecting the sprinkles on my foot sundae.
It was a massaging chair, with heated cushions.
I will now repeat myself, for effect.
The chair heated up and massaged my shoulders, lower back, and legs. It was the most glorious thing since waterproof mascara. I referred to it as the “rumble seat,” and the esthetician looked at me a little strangely but seemed to think it was an appropriate title. I’m used to getting funny glances because of my unusual turns of phrase, so it was nothing out of the ordinary. Before long, I was slumped in the chair, fighting to stay awake.
By the time my pedicure was complete and my toenails were gorgeously glossy, I was a heap of flesh almost totally devoid of the ability to be self-supporting. Essentially, I was a pork tenderloin in horn-rimmed glasses.
Three more days. The count down is on, most officially.
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