Witch Toes

Have I got your attention? These feet. They are mine. Now that I see them in a picture, they're not quite as sexy as I once thought they were...bunions and bunion scars, Tailor's Bunions (the bump sticking out the side below the pinkie toe-named so because shoe tailor's used to sit cross legged on the floor while they worked...resulting in these outer edge bunions-mine are from high heeled shoes), chipped up toenail polish, curled up old witch toes from smushing into those same evil tailor's bunion high heels for 10 years straight, and silly toe moles that pop up out of nowhere.

There is no help for these poor feet, they've walked one too many miles, but they still get me around and you just can't beat that.

I could fix 'em up a little, I guess. Take 'em to one of those fancy pedicure joints. But, umm, I'm not real big on those places. At least the one's around here. Do explain, you say? This is NOT a stereotype of all nail places (just the one's I've been to- and that's nobody's fault but my own). No one who has ever done my toes has a complete grasp on the English language. Me- "Please don't cut the sides of my toenails down too far or rip them out down to the cuticle because I get ingrown toenails." All I get is a head nod and "mhmm, OK". After which, the tiny little foot torturer shockingly belts out something completely hilarious in Vietnamese to all the other tiny little foot torturers- they all get a great chuckle at my expense. Meanwhile, while one foot is burning off in scalding hot water, the torturer cuts away at my nails, cuts the sides way down to the cuticles and rips the cuticles out and off. Dang it! I JUST told you NOT to do that! I'm seething at this point and I can feel each heart beat in my toes as they throb in pain. I'm just thinking, OK, at least the massage will be nice. Massage makes up for everything in my book. I LOVE massage. Any kind of massage can stop me dead in my tracks, rendering me unable to speak even. So, either I am way too optimistic or a glutton for punishment because: OH the massage! The massage comes. And I knew better. It's always the same. She grates along my calf bone with her knuckles and presses really hard on the tender bones in the balls of my feet. Ugg. I never leave happy. I always get an ingrown toenail, overpay the deceiving sweet talker, and walk out feeling a little humiliated about being scrutinized in a foreign language. Should I spare the extra expense and take my feet to the spa at The St. Regis? Oh bother, it's too far away anyways. I'll just stick to doing my own nails and save the massage for a professional at a real spa...

...which by the way I am doing in a couple of weeks. Hub Nub got me a massage and facial for Christmas at Burke Williams. Sweet Heaven Above! I'm in for a reeeeeeeal treat!