Still Life With Foot

It's only two days until I head to San Francisco, and only six days until Florida. Or: 0 surf sessions, 2 classes of yoga, 2 days of weights, and 4 bike commutes left until I touch the sky. My tan will have to hold, and my abs are as good as they are going to get this round.

Yesterday was my day to get pretty ... a haircut, then a manicure/pedicure "spa treatment." It was my first, and probably my last. I just don't get the appeal. I'd been hearing about manicures for men from all sides, too. A friend wrote in her column about bringing her boyfriend in for a pedicure, and how he's now hooked. I asked around, and was surprised at the male friends I had who swore by pedicures. A couple weeks ago at lunch some guys took the afternoon off to go get one. Big, butch guys, I should add. Well ... pseudo-butch ... the kind of guys who don't shave and hate cologne and could probably bathe more ... but who will get a manicure before going to a leather party.

So I'm not one to pass up a trend. That and - thanks to yoga - I've been spending a lot of time lately trying to touch my toes with my nose, and as I get closer each week I realize that my toes could use some work.

So I went in to the salon. And I'd rank the experience somewhere between getting your teeth cleaned at the dentist and donating blood. Good for you, maybe, but not pleasant. I took my shoes off, picked up the fat Chihuahua that was sniffing at my feet, sat in the barcalounger, dropped my feet in a tub of warm water, and tried to ignore the fact that a Vietnamese lady was poking around down there with sharp objects. The barcalounger had some kind of robot mechanism inside to massage your back. While I love massages, this Wallace and Gromit designed mechanism was just making me nauseous. A few times it almost knocked me out of the chair. It was just too much stimualtion: the dog, the lady with sharp objects, the insane robotic masseur. I was having a hard time handling it all, and I did what I always do at the doctor and dentist: closed my eyes, did some deep breathing, and tried to find a far-away happy place.

After awhile I was calm enough to relax my death grip on the Chihuahua and open my eyes. Big mistake. The Nail Salon was next to Buffet 100, a Chinese place that caters to fat people. 100 items, all you can eat, $10.95! My barcalounger was next to the window, and what I saw was a steady stream of slack-jawed jaundice-eyed waddling tubs of lard staring in the window, laughing and pointing [a boy in a nail salon! ha! ha! ha!], then moving on to stuff their collective faces with Greasy Noodle Special No. 5.

I would have been embarassed, but they'll all be dead of Type-2 Diabetes before the decade is out, and I'll be at Typhoon Lagoon looking fabulous with my perfect feet.

Only, not.

All day I've been looking at my nails, thinking: I spent $35 for that? I could've done that at home if I actually paid attention. But we live, spend, and learn.