I happened to glance up from my book the other day and there were my feet. Yep, still attached to my calves, but they were immersed in a warm water bath along with the realization that I am now a pampered woman "of a certain age". Just as sure as if the cream had curdled in my morning coffee and I knew it was going to be a bad day.
It was a shock to learn that late one night--probably when I was happily gabbling away on Facebook and trying to beat my best friend at Scrabble and not paying any attention to my feet at all--a relative of the Grim Reaper stole in and, well, stole my youth.
All of a sudden I saw that I now have more in common with my mother than my daughter. That I too had crossed the line which puts me squarely in the camp of those who clog progress at the express check-out because they have to get caught up on the cashier's grandchildren; the women who complain about the price of gas but think nothing of flying off to Florida for six months; those who groan slightly as they rise from a comfy chair.
Anyway, back to my feet in the warm bubbling water, which is a bargain at any price, I don't care what my husband says. (Because he crossed that invisible line too--only way before his time--so I know not to tell him how much things cost.) No, it wasn't the little Vietnamese woman--who was simultaneously scrubbing away my dead skin and loudly berating someone on her cell phone held deftly between chin and shoulder--who broke the news about my decrepitude.
She was way too busy divorcing her husband for sleeping with her best friend...or declaring all out war on China...or, maybe, just telling her daughter to come straight home after school, all pretty much at the top of her voice in a Staccato. Since we do not share a common language we can never speak more than five words to each other, communicating through pointing, nods and cash. However, from what I have observed of her clientele, there is a steady stream of middle-aged and older women who pass through her door every day interspersed with bridal parties (who take a remarkably long time deciding on toe nail polish hues). She, basically, spends her days providing foot care for the elderly--the boomers who need help with their feet but are too proud or vain to attend the regular foot care clinics provided, free of charge, I believe, by the health clinic.
I know my pedicurist has seen worse feet than mine--those more twisted by arthritis, deformed by bunions and callouses, dirtier and more neglected. Mine are just ordinary and, really, have no business in the pedicure salon. After all, I dislike having my feet touched. I REALLY dislike it. In fact, I view my monthly appointment with the esthetician with the same anticipation that accompanies a visit to the dentist.
I can't say I suffer through it. There are very nice aspects--such as that warm bubbling bath or the fact that I can sip my coffee and read my book relatively undisturbed as a jabbering woman sorts out the world. And, at the end of the hateful massage and pressing upon all the touchiest points, my feet emerge pretty. Well "pretty" is a relative term. They look good in sandals and my ingrown nail worries have been erased. And my feet look just like all the others when we stretch out on that Florida beach.
How this industry sprang up and got it so perfect is a mystery to me. All I know is that I am totally hooked on having my feet catered to each month--flinching and jumping all the way.
