So I’m sitting with my feet in warm water. Thank goodness Wipeout isn’t on anymore. For a minute I thought I might pee a little.
I’m here for my yearly pedicure. I force myself to let someone touch my feet. I’m not a foot person. I hate to touch feet or even look at them. Mine are the worst. I have Frodo Feet. You know the ones. They are giant, hairy hobbit feet. I thank my father and each and every one of my pregnancies.
I’m smart enough to know someone needs to take a sandblaster to these suckers at least once half way through the summer. Did I mention I am often scolded for mowing in flip flops? You get the picture.
You would think that I would want this done weekly… child free night alone, someone massaging your feet… sitting on a vibrator chair. Oh… the vibrator chair. I don’t know if I’m sea sick or if I’ll be needing to go forward on Sunday to repent.
So I’m looking at the hairy legs next to me. Seriously, hairy legs! It’s no wonder they wear gloves. I’m thinking I’m okay when I notice the pile of skin on the towel. It resembles a pile of Ray’s wood shavings. Then there’s the ditch digger that’s needed to remove the embedded debris. The junk that just came off my feet would totally plug the gushing oil in the gulf. Plenty if shame and guilt.
The good news is I’m done. My feet feel like a baby’s bottom. It was totally worth hearing “Too Short!” a couple of times.
Sent from my iPhone