I would rather eat a Madagascan hissing cockroach, have a bath of worms or go through the world’s most haunted house, alone, on Halloween, than have my feet touched/ have to touch someone else’s feet.
I can’t even deal with my own. While I am attempting to overcome my fear (I no longer have to wear gloves when I paint my own toenails. Progress.) the list of things I would rather do than have my feet touched remains extensive.
Which is why I am exceptionally proud of myself for engaging in a common pampering past-time: The Pedicure.
Yes, I am aware it is an enormous luxury and not something I should reasonably be congratulated for, but trust me, it was a HUGE deal.
You see, as is often the case in these warmer months, in our gorgeous sunburnt country, my feet had taken a battering. Walking on hot sand, hanging out with family in the back yard, popping bare-foot to the shops for a Slurpee (queue judgement) had left me with heels capable of sanding an 18th century armoire. My toenails were uneven and my calluses could only reasonably be described as Next Level.
Something had to be done. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the one to do it.
It was an emotional roller-coaster, but my journey pretty much consisted of five different stages.
The first was reluctance. I knew it had to be done, if only for the sake of my vanity, but that doesn’t mean I was happy about it. After approximately six weeks of sheer avoidance (and three hours at the shopping centre, walking in and out of every salon and nail bar, proclaiming I was ‘just looking’ and practically sprinting back out) I finally made the appointment. I felt proud. Proud and petrified.
The second stage was more of a physical reaction than emotional. As I sat on the waiting bench, my left-knee bouncing up and down, I began to feel clammy. Not just a mild, ‘does it feel a little warm in here?’ upper lip glisten. No, that would be far to delicate. It was more like, rivulets running down my lower back and underarms. ‘I sense impending doom’ level sweats.