|I was ready to find out.|
I was currently wearing my running shorts, which were dotted with Clorox bleach spots and a tiny hole in the rear. If someone was going to be looking at my nails, I didn't know why a change of shorts was necessary, until I realized that my wife didn't want to be seen with me in public wearing those. In fact, she doesn't want to be seen with me in private wearing them.
|Maybe if I had this thing|
I'd clip them more often.
|Not one to waste a good thing, |
Mr. Bux grilled burgers after the
After resisting my wife's entreaties for years, I now mutely nodded and did as I was told. The mani-pedi place being a block and a half away, we were there before you could say "paraffin wax." I was rather proud of myself, really, for going along with this without putting up a fight or even asking what the rush was. I guess I've been worn down to the point where, like all good husbands, I just do as I'm told. It was interesting, truth be told, being 57 and walking into a particular storefront business for the first time. The only thing I have left to experience is a brothel, but that seems to be out of the question, unless my wife is really generous for my next birthday. From her perspective, treating me to the mani-pedi is more than enough.
|Accurate representation of how they saw me.|
Maybe it's my keen sensitivity to others, but I've always considered pedicurists as something of slaves. There's something very 15th-century about young women on their knees clipping and filing toenails -- and, in my case, filing down the soles of my feet. But all that was forgotten when I stuck my feet into the warm mini-jacuzzi on the floor in front of my chair. Ahhh... What the hell, she'll get a tip at the end of this. Still, I don't know about you ladies, but I find getting my nails filed akin to running them down a blackboard. I twitched and turned as if getting electric shocks, while my wife, enjoying the same treatment, calmly sat there reading a month-old copy of People magazine. She's not as sensitive as me.
|I'm not sure if "The dainty little cake" refers to the product|
or the guy on the left.
By the time the whole routine was finished, all 20 of my nails were shorter than they've been since I was three months old. My cuticles were invisible. My feet felt like they were resting on clouds. Best of all, I didn't have to walk home with tiny pieces of Kleenex between my toes. There was something to this mani-pedi stuff, I admitted, but I wasn't ready to commit to a monthly go-round like my wife. The closest to pampering I indulge in is the very occasional professional shave from my barber. Too much cuticle-pushing, I believe, can be a dangerous thing. I recall comedian Bernie Mac positively boasting that he allowed himself a mani-pedi every week. He died at the age of 51. They say it was pneumonia. I think it was one mani too many. Getting shaved with a long razor twice a year is the closest I want to get to pampering with danger.