After several weeks of back packing through France, my feet were beat. Therefore, the first thing on the agenda after clearing US Customs was to kick off the trekking shoes and get a pedicure. The fact that I could pull a fish out of a lake with these toes was likely the prime indicator my feet had gotten out of hand!
I had seen several places during our travels that advertised French manicures. What the heck?! I’m in France! What other kind of manicure was I going to get? Therefore, I immediately didn’t trust them. This was obviously a sketchy front for the sex slave trade, and you know there’s probably a big market for middle-aged white moms with bunions. People do strange things in France plus the whole ISIS presence, so you can’t be too careful. Just one more reason to go another day without changing my socks because my miserable neglect of my feet was probably all that was keeping me safe.
Back home, I’m in one of those pedicure chairs with the creepy “massage” function — the one that always make me feel like I’m on a bad buckboard ride in a horrible Wild West theme park. Anyway, I notice the woman next to me. She must be about to leave for France because she’s having her toenails painted this weird Kermit the Frog shade of green. She must think if her feet resemble a poisonous snake, she’ll be safer. I’m not saying she’s wrong.
Meanwhile, to punish me for my neglect, my pedicure girl has stuck my feet into pans of boiling hot wax. I can only imagine this is how Hans Solo felt in that Star Wars episode where he’s trapped in molten lead. Like Hans, I also know that resistance is futile. Nothing to do but suck it up and hope she didn’t get that cheese grater tool thing out again. I understand the calluses were bad, but surely there are laws to protect me from that thing.
I’m happy to say I survived the ordeal, paid my bill, and tip the pedicure girl enough that next time I come in she wont be triggered all over again. Then on the way out, I stop to throw away those little pieces of foam they stick between your toes, except I didn’t have my glasses on and I was in a hurry to escape the den of pedi-torture. Unfortunately, I was already out the door when I realized I’d “thrown them away” in some lady’s big purse. Alright, so now you don’t wonder why I find it easier to just wear socks!
(Note: Those are not my toes in the photo. I picked out a nice pink color, thank you. Those are the toad-colored toes next to me.)