For her recent birthday, My Much Better Half wanted to get a pedicure.
For a number of reasons, a handful of chosen companions — a dear friend, our daughter, our oldest granddaughter who at age seven has been begging to get her first pedi — one by one begged out.
“Will you come with me?” MMBH asked me.
“Sure, I’ll keep you company,” replied I.
“No, I mean get a pedicure with me,” MMBH said, humorously, except she did not laugh. She was as serious as a bad bunion, an ingrown toenail, and a cracked callus combined.
In our 44 years of marriage, this was the most outlandish Honey-Do request My Much Better Honey has ever made. I say this not because of gender stereotyping or fragile masculinity, but because no one, not even a nail technician who gets paid and tipped generously, should have to touch my homely (to be kind; hideous to be honest) toenails.
Ever since running my first marathon four decades ago, I have typically had at least one or two dead-and-black toenails at all times and a personal record of seven once. It is not that my running shoes are too short, but rather my mileage is too long.
My toenails are not only often painful to look at, they can be painful to the touch. The thought of a pedicurist trimming my nails and, worse, filing them, struck me as torture — rather, toe-ture.
Ohhhh, the things we do for love.
“Ohhhh-kay,” I relented. “I’ll get my first ever — and last — pedicure, just for you. Happy birthday!”
I was not alone in feeling sympathy, compassion, and a dose pity for the pedicurist who was assigned to me. After my treatment began, MMBH texted a photo to our two adult children and my sister, too, and — Ding! Ding! Ding! — three replies quickly came back . . .
Smartypants 1: “I bet the staff were praying to do Ma’s feet instead of yours.”
Smartypants 2: “Oh, my, the poor pedicurist!”
Smartypants 3: “Who would touch your feet?! Did they draw straws to see who got the short one and was stuck with you?”
I could not disagree and actually asked the kind woman who drew the shortest straw, “Are these the worst-looking toes you’ve ever seen?”
Theresa’s awkward, elongated hesitation spoke more truthfully than did her eventual polite response.
My hurt feelings aside, the pedicure was pure pleasure. To fellow gentlemen pedicure virgins, you have no idea what you have been missing out on!
The warm foot bath, perfectly shy of hot, was relaxing; the toenail trimming was “Ouch!”-less, unlike when I clip them myself; the nail shaping and cuticle care was likewise flinch-free; exfoliating scrubs and the buffing of calluses with a pumice stone tickled for an instant, then actually felt soothingly sublime (and made the heels and balls of my feet smooth as kid leather); and the calf-and-foot massage was absolutely heavenly and my favorite part of the 45 minutes of pedi pampering.
It was actually a toe-to-trapezius experience thanks to a massage chair that kneaded all the right spots and nearly put me to sleep.
Lastly, it was time for nail polish. My Much Better Half assumed I would sit this out, and I would have until she couched it as a dare.
I dare say, at first blush painting my toenails seemed like putting lipstick on a pig — yet my ten little piggies turned out as dazzling as Ana de Armas. Certainly, the dark plum-colored polish outshines marathon-black nails.
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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn
Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.
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Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn.