I hate feet! Feet are gross. I have a pedicure every now and then just to have a pound of flesh removed from the bottom and sides of my too often bare and quite neglected feet. The women stuck performing this task often shake their heads and as the pile of dead skin grows higher and higher they have been known to call friends over to marvel at the mounds of sloughed-off skin. I am like a carnival side show when it comes to pedicures. I always have my toe nails painted in a very blah french tip style. I want no one starring at my feet ohhing and ahhing over a selected color because with the prolonged look they may notice what I have always known- my feet should be chopped off and donated to science.
On my last visit for skin removal I took my dear daughter. She has her father's feet. For this I am eternally grateful to the little bits and pieces of DNA that determined her parts distribution. She proudly picked the brightest bottle of polish on the shelf. She sat perfectly still and enjoyed the massage chair and didn't mind one bit while someone labored over her feet. She didn't wiggle or squirm and sat very stoically through the entire procedure. The lady assigned this task was quite impressed by her behavior and added a very beautiful flower to her toes at no extra charge. She loved every minute of the fuss over her feet!
I noticed something too. While everyone was marveling over the beautiful young lady I had beside me, my feet were not the center of attention. The lady merely looked at me and I got the pitied head shake and tongue "tsk! tsk!" but I was not barraged by the normal group of oglers. I may take this wonderful distraction with me more often.
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