Despite my budding cold and throbbing headache yesterday, I ventured out to have a pedicure because I am going on vacation. And a girl knows what a girl needs to do in preparation for the sun.
Actually, I am just completely taken by the fact that I have toenails again.
If you follow me on twitter, you may know that, following the NYC Marathon, I experienced what can only be called a…toenail fail. My two big toenails fell off. While most runners might find this to be a badge of courage, I found this to be completely effing mortifying.
For one, I’ve always prided myself on having lovely feet. For another, at the time, I was going through complete personal upheaval and having some part of my body look like it had just been put through a meat grinder was pretty much the opposite of what I needed–glory-wound or not.
My friends seemed to think that this was just hilarious too….me with my troll feet with the bloody, stumpy toes. After months and months, I was finally fed up and I took my half-toenails and got a pedicure. Upon noticing the color on my feet, Mrs. Santucci asked, “Oh, did you have someone paint your feet where you wish you had toenails?”
Anyway, six months and another marathon and a half later, and my toenails are back. And not a moment too late.
I was scrubbed and nipped and filed and painted yesterday; my skinny jeans pushed up over my calves. “Jenny” massaged my feet and calves like a pro. I felt…normal. I felt…like any other woman in New York, having her toes done in preparation for the beach.
“Jenny” led me to the dryers. I picked up some forgettable magazine as my nails and toes baked. I put the magazine down, and got on my blackberry for a while.
Tap, tap, tap: Message to MH.
Tap, tap, tap: Message to Shay.
Tap, tap, tap: SMS to Alice.
Check email; respond to email. Touch dryer and sit for another round of baking the nails dry.
WK met me and we were going to go to dinner. Time to go.
Jenny came over and was helping me pull my jeans down. It was then that we all realized the issue. Skinny jeans go up just fine. Skinny jeans do not go down over massage-swollen, waterlogged calves.
Tug. Tugtugtugtug. TUGGGGG.
It was closing time at Iris Nail, and soon the ENTIRE salon turned out for the affair. Jenny gave up. The manicurist was on the case instead. Soon, I had two ladies tugging; one holding my chair back, and another fanning me because by then, I’d started to sweat profusely, from both embarassment and the pain of having everyone manipulating my calves.
The troop of ladies turned to WK, who was then charged with pulling the hem of my skinny jeans from my knees to my calves and back around my ankles, while one of the ladies held me in my chair.
He undertook the task with aplomb. I think he sort of relished my humiliation.
“I feel like I should get a tip,” he remarked. The salon manager swatted him.
We left–WK laughing all the while and me having learned the very important life lesson that skinny jeans and pedicures simply do not mix.