There’s nothing like it…immersing your feet in a warm, bubbling foot bath while sitting in a chair that massages your back. Except of course if you’re watching Rhee Drummond and having a glass of wine while you’re having a pedicure. I can’t have the wine right now, though, because it’s only 9:30 a.m.
My sister and I probably put sixty plus miles on our poor, aching arches while we were at Universal at the beginning of June. Last year I bought a pair of slip on tennis shoes that from day one, cradled my feet in marshmallowy comfort. This year, thinking the same thing would happen, I bought a new pair of those same tennis shoes.
I was wrong about the new shoes. I got BLISTERS. I was in misery. Of course, you don’t feel them while you’re walking but let me tell you something, you sure as heck feel them when you get back to the hotel room when shreds of skin are hanging out the backs of your heels.
Fine, I think. Tomorrow I’ll just wear my tried and true, three year old tennies tomorrow. Which I do. However, I also have on brand new, plush socks and between being on my feet too long, sweating, and having those super soft socks on, I managed to work up some terrible blisters again, this time in a different spot. It’s almost funny except it’s not. My blisters sting.
I am forced to switch to flip flops the next day and I don’t know about you, but I don’t do so well walking ten miles in flip flops. My calves still haven’t quite forgiven me.
Fast forward three weeks. We’re back from Florida, and I have my tootsies soaking in the aforementioned bath at the nail bar, relaxing.
My technician comes over and pulls my feet out of the bath and sets them on the footrest. She leans in and looks closer.
“Oh, my gosh. What did you do to your feet?” she shrieks. She’s staring at my poor arches, where the skin is pruny from the warm water. It’s also showcasing all the remnants of those blisters and all the trauma I put my feet through walking around the parks. She puts a mask on and some gloves and it’s then I notice that none of the other technicians have on gloves and a mask.
I’m feeling singled out.
My concentration is broken by a couple who came in with matching “Eleven years of wedded bliss” t-shirts. They’re both there to get pedicures too. Their technician doesn’t say anything about their feet.
My pedicure begins with a sugar scrub on one foot, then the other, followed by the Purple Foot Scrubber of Deathly Tickles. I’m biting my fingers to keep from kicking her in the head when she hits an especially sensitive spot.
She manages to calm my aching, previously blistered feet down so much that they’re smooth and pretty. By the time she’s done painting my toes, I’ve forgiven her for making a fuss because they look so good.
I tip her well, mostly to ensure her silence for the next time I’m in the nail bar. Maybe she’ll skip the mask. And the purple foot scrubber.