Ow. Ow. Damnit, OW!

The very first time I got a pedicure, I was visiting my sister in California. I was probably in my twenties, and had never had anything particularly girlie done, unless you count the unending number of bottles of fire-engine-red hair dye that had graced my head since the minute I discovered that the upside to being a Sun-In blonde is that that blonde will absorb red like a sponge.

And we won't discuss the absolute unruly glory of my eyebrows in those days. I do have some vanity left.

So my sister dragged me along to let a stranger who spoke minimal English rub my feet and legs, trim my toes, and erase those calluses from my feet. (Fellas?) It felt good, warm, restful, despite the growing horror of the callus removal. Once done, I had brightly-colored toes and feet as soft as a baby's bottom. What a luxury! What joy! Until I walked, each step more painful, excruciating, weird...why would it hurt to walk?

Turns out there's a reason for those hard-earned calluses. Being able to walk upright, it turns out, is a small price to pay for a little bit of not-so-lovely bits of me.

I didn't get a pedicure for about a decade after that, and when I finally went to the nail salon, it took a goodly bit of bribery to lure me in. My memory is bad, but my physical memory of hurting is strong, and I couldn't stop thinking of how long it took to walk full upright again, and be able to wear cute shoes again. This pedicure, however, was different and better. Some scrubbing, smoothing, painting...no skin removal. Perfect. I've been addicted for years now.

Until this last one, where the helped pedicurist asked me if I'd like a "procedure". Sure, why not? You guys, it was the same as the first. So of course walking hurt, and of course I had to stand in a hallway for an hour in heels with no protective barrier between my skin and shoes and floor.

That was last Thursday. Today is Tuesday, and I can finally walk upright again. No more procedures for me.