The three kids were left behind with our two husbands. The cousins were so enthralled to be with each other that I don’t believe they even registered we were leaving. It was the day of my brother-in-law’s wedding, and my sister-in-law and I felt a little pampering was in order before we stepped into our bridesmaid dresses for the big night.
First on the agenda: a manicure and pedicure. Given that this would bring the number of pedicures I’ve had in my life so far to a grand total of three, I had neglected to even consider packing flip flops for our trip down to California. Hailing from Oregon, thong sandals just interfere with the webbing that grows between one’s toes during the endless rainy season, so such summery notions in April were the furthest thing from my mind.
Obviously, even to a novice like me, putting tennis shoes over freshly dried nail polish is just a no-no. Thus, I flapped into the salon wearing a pair of my sister-in-law’s size 10 hibiscus print flip flops, which, while perfect under her tall frame, were a little ill fitting on my size 6 feet.
Determined to not let the fact that I looked like Bozo the clown’s Hawaiian cousin make me feel discomfited, I followed my sister-in-law to the friendly receptionist to let her know we were there for our appointments.
We had brought our nail polish with us. My sister-in-law explained the importance of this step: in the event a nail got accidentally scratched or chipped and needed a touch up, we would have the fix on hand at all times. I was duly impressed by this logic and expertise; again, it was something that would simply not have dawned on me.
When they called our names, I turned to see a beige leather armchair that seemed to disappear into a shallow whirlpool, swirls of warm water beckoning invitingly to my sorry feet. We nestled ourselves into the luxurious softness and my sister-in-law showed me how to turn on the various features that would probably put most people to sleep: warmth and massage to suit several preferences, catering to tired necks, backs and legs.
My pedicurist came over with her bucket of goodies. She and my sister-in-law exchanged pleasantries, and the woman was extremely nice to me, as if to say a friend of hers is a friend of mine.
It was then that I felt it was only fair to warn the poor woman that there was a teeny proviso to this treatment. Granted, asking that someone kindly not touch your feet during a pedicure is rather like asking someone to drive you somewhere without turning on the ignition of the car, but I tried to impress upon her as gently as I could that I am hideously ticklish, and cannot bear the mere suggestion of a foot massage, let alone actually endure one.
I typically wouldn’t even have consented to putting myself through this torment, but despite my general disrespect for fashion, I do have a no-ragamuffin policy for weddings, particularly when I’m in them and even more particularly when the people getting married are family.
Her eyebrows knitted together ever so slightly and she cocked her head to the side, blinking a bit. “So, no foot massage?” she asked.
“NO foot massage!!” I confirmed emphatically. “I’m REALLY ticklish so please try to just do the polish without touching my feet very much if you can.”
She smiled a smile that was very friendly but I could tell she thought I was a sock short of a pair.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish