after the spa

The ladies at the spa were little angels! Not only did they kindly not scold me for the wretched state of my nails and cuticles, they actually treated me like – well – kind of like the queen of Sheba.

I don’t think all pedicures are like the one I had. First my attendant sat me down in a big padded throne of a chair and asked me to place my long bare white feet into an enormous copper bowl, where she poured sudsy, warm, scented water over them. While my feet soaked, she unfolded a big soft blanket over my lap and explained the rest of the process to me. But I didn’t quite get the whole thing till she removed the soaking bowl, and tilted the whole chair back like a feminine sort of La-Z-Boy. I was lying on my back with my feet and legs elevated, soft music playing, a blankie tucked in cozily, and a lovely face mask to keep out every last harsh light of reality. She held something lavender scented under my nose and had me take three deep breaths. Then my feet were massaged, exfoliated with a sugar scrub, and moisturized, my toenails were buffed, my cuticles trimmed, and my calluses sanded. The best part was when she gently wrapped my feet in a hot towel. I think that was when I asked her to marry me.

This pedicure was heavenly. I could easily become addicted to that sort of treatment. But it would be an awfully expensive addiction. I’ll be getting twitchy and distracted, jonesing for a pedicure I can see a point where the police have to arrest me because I have been breaking into houses and stealing things to support my pedicure habit. I’ll go through re-hab and when I come out, I can establish Pedicuraholics Anonymous. Can you imagine how hooked I would be if I actually had pretty feet? I could get colored toenails with designs painted on them. And rhinestones glued on. Maybe even that cool holographic foil. No, much better that I get my pedicures maybe once a year, with no polish what-so-ever. (But my toes are BUFF!)

The manicure was fun too, but not nearly as sensual. I had a choice of moisturizing creams: ginger/mango, coconut/lime, or honey/papaya which was my selection. I was again massaged, exfoliated, de-cuticled, pruned, shaped and buffed. Then my attendant painted on the pale pink polish I had selected. Oh, my these hands feel wealthy. The final wonderful thing, as I was checking out, was when my attendant told me that I was not to do any manual labor for 72 hours. What a delightful fantasy! I dented my polish as I was buckling my seat-belt.

As soon as I got home, I went to the computer where DH was killing demon cows. I cocked my foot next to the keyboard, flipped my pants cuff up coquettishly, and purred, “Feel my leg.”

I freely admit that this was the act of an idiot. He was, after all, killing demon cows. What in the world was I thinking? And yet, hero that he is, he reached out his left hand, patted my ankle, and even had the presence of mind to mutter – “Mmm – nice.” Is this man a prince or what? He not only gave me this wonderful pampering experience, he even admired me afterwards! He should give classes!

That pretty much ate up my Saturday afternoon. On Sunday, we went to see “The Astronaut Farmer.” Mr. Farmer is actually a rancher, in Texas, but that’s sort of irrelevant. I was underwhelmed. It was no “Space Cowboys.” It was OK, and it had the obligatory happy ending. It left me asking question, (like, where does the government come off telling this guy he can’t fly his rocket?) and all I wanted was to be spoon-fed some entertainment. But I got lots of knitting done on an orphan sweater, so it could not be considered anything like a waste of time.