It’s an annual ritual, thanks to the usual horrifying condition of my Monkey-Shit Feet™. Before we go on a beach vacation, She Who Must Be Obeyed insists on my getting a pedicure.
I can understand her concern. My bare feet can cause violent emesis at fifty paces. It’s not that they’re stinky or anything like that. They’re just plain ugly. And without I get ’em fixed up, the Missus does not want to be seen anywhere near me.
OK, so I’ll play along...although I’m not exactly thrilled with the idea. And why is that, anyway? I mean, I know that giving me a pedicure is alittle lot like polishing a turd, but since when am I reluctant to engage in Useless Endeavors? I do write at this dopey site, after all.
It’s a strange thing, this male reluctance to embrace professional nail care. We entrust the shearing of our hair - that other Excrescence of Outer Integument - to professionals; why are men so reluctant to have a professional trim the ol’ talons? I mean, how many of us cut our own hair? The handful of us who do are easily spotted - they look like Moe Howard. Woo-woo!
It’s not so bad, really. You sit in this electric Shiatsu Massage Chair and get your backbone worked over while the Nail Technician operates on your footsies. Hell, give me a tumbler of single malt and I could get used to this. Take a Shiatsu every day, I would. Except I don't care much for that part where they take the cheese grater and/or pumice stone to the calloused soles. Not painful; merely grotesque. And the foot massages are ticklish, with no prospect of a Happy Ending in sight.
And the technician is always a smartass.
“You want polish?” (giggle, giggle).
“Fuck, no.”
Meanwhile, as I am going through all this, SWMBO is getting done up in style. Toenails, fingernails, and a Panamanian Wax Job. She is definitely ready for a week at the beach. Check out the Toenail Palm Tree!
SWMBO’s toes: Ready for a week at the beach.
And now that it’s all done, my feet do look marginally better. At least, nobody has thrown up. Now, to leave the shop...
I can understand her concern. My bare feet can cause violent emesis at fifty paces. It’s not that they’re stinky or anything like that. They’re just plain ugly. And without I get ’em fixed up, the Missus does not want to be seen anywhere near me.
OK, so I’ll play along...although I’m not exactly thrilled with the idea. And why is that, anyway? I mean, I know that giving me a pedicure is a
It’s a strange thing, this male reluctance to embrace professional nail care. We entrust the shearing of our hair - that other Excrescence of Outer Integument - to professionals; why are men so reluctant to have a professional trim the ol’ talons? I mean, how many of us cut our own hair? The handful of us who do are easily spotted - they look like Moe Howard. Woo-woo!
It’s not so bad, really. You sit in this electric Shiatsu Massage Chair and get your backbone worked over while the Nail Technician operates on your footsies. Hell, give me a tumbler of single malt and I could get used to this. Take a Shiatsu every day, I would. Except I don't care much for that part where they take the cheese grater and/or pumice stone to the calloused soles. Not painful; merely grotesque. And the foot massages are ticklish, with no prospect of a Happy Ending in sight.
And the technician is always a smartass.
“You want polish?” (giggle, giggle).
“Fuck, no.”
Meanwhile, as I am going through all this, SWMBO is getting done up in style. Toenails, fingernails, and a Panamanian Wax Job. She is definitely ready for a week at the beach. Check out the Toenail Palm Tree!
SWMBO’s toes: Ready for a week at the beach.
And now that it’s all done, my feet do look marginally better. At least, nobody has thrown up. Now, to leave the shop...
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