I don't know how she does it.How she gets me to do things. Well, I do know. It's her. One of my oldest and dearest friends. The woman who once slammed my hand with my own locker door, who I impersonated Miss Piggy for in Latin class, who never approved of the girls I dated, who got me to get a pedicure nine years ago and again last week.
This time was not as dramatic as the last. I was experienced now. I'd had a pedicure before, so I had a clue. There were some things that were different from then till now. The first time I was the only male in the salon and it was cause for comment among a few of the other non-males in the room. This time it was no deal (big or otherwise) at all. The first time, I got an extra foot rub instead of the nail polish. This time I got both.
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| And this 'ittle pitty got all tarted up. |
It's been a week living with technicolor toes and I've noticed a few things:
- Every time (I mean, every. time.) I see my feet now I wonder whose feet are attached to my legs.
- I don't feel the polish has polished my podiatric presentation that much (next time I'm getting the "Dressed to Kilt" red instead of the "Dating a Royal" blue)
- There's no small glee in being at work and knowing that I'm the only one who knows my toes are painted. It's like when I wore the novelty underpants to a funeral.
- That glee is often momentary, because I readily forget about the polish. Which hasn't been an issue, except when I went to change into my sneakers in the locker room and my naked toes reminded me they were painted before my brain did. I'm somebody's story now.
- I did not, repeat NOT, feel like less of a man with nail polish on. It made no difference to my self-perception. Which means, it's the kind of thing I can do or not because I want to, not because someone else expects it.
