It’s been a while since my toes have been pedicured, either by myself or someone else. I tend to opt for near-nude-colored polishes, and while I am embarrassed to admit this, I removed my last coat of polish on my toes with my toenail clipper… as in, the polish was on my toes until my toenails grew long enough that finally I cut away the last of the polished nail.
Yeah, I know. It’s really quite sad and pathetic. But it’s winter here in the Northeast, so the only people seeing my toes were the husband and kids, and quite frankly, they didn’t notice it. I guess I see my own toes, too. But obviously I really didn’t care to rectify the situation as it morphed from ambivalence to laziness to downright pedicureal sloth.
But Tuesday. Ah, glorious Tuesday. We will wake up in New York, and go to sleep on the idyllic island of Aruba. The forecast varies from highs of 88 to highs of 87. At night the lowest is like 77. There will be nary a sock to be seen on my feet.
Normally such an impending de-wintering of my feet would take me to a nail salon. Living where I do, there are lots of nail salons, staffed by women from faraway Asian countries who speak broken English and are willing to give you a mani/pedi for like $25. When I was working, I partook of this often. But now that it’s Frank that would be paying for such an indulgence, I haven’t partaken since I stopped working. I guess it just doesn’t seem fair that his time at work should finance a calf massage and a coat of polish.
So, tonight, I did it myself. Soaked the feet, got out the pumice stone and the cuticle-pushy-stick-things, and the polish, and got the dogs all dolled up. Frank walked in near the end and said “WHAT are you DOING?” I wanted to roll my eyes at him but really it’s my own foot negligence that has him unable to recognize a pedicure when he sees one.