People, these are serious times. Some major shit is happening in the world, which is why I feel compelled to discuss my toes. I have ten of them, and mostly they look normal. In fact, I was once told by two hunky podiatrists at a Lake Travis marina that I had absolutely beeeuu-tiful feet. Of course, I had on a bikini and they weren't exactly looking down when they said that. Still, I think they look okay.
But because my feet are so sensitive, I avoid drawing attention to them. What if someone decides he simply can't stop himself from petting them? Cuz that is like lighting my ass on fire. Touch the "dogs" and I pretty much teleport to the next galaxy over.
So you can imagine how I feel about pedicures. Those pedi-bitches are all combat on your feet—like ancient toe-chi warfare—scrubbing and rubbing and exfoliating your tender insteps with the zeal of a Canadian seal clubber. Plus, my pedi-bitch speaks zero English. She nods a lot, smiles and giggles at me—all innocent and friendly like—which only prods me to reciprocate in a feeble attempt at polite communication. But what she's really doing is conning me into letting her engage in her Vietnamese torture tactics. She then turns to her cohort doing my friend's pedi and hai-ching-dows something totally gossipy about what a silly, squirmy white girl I am. Obviously, I speak hai-ching-dow, so nothing is lost on me.
Then with my feet in her grasp, the pedi-bitch deftly sets me to writhing and wriggling and recoiling and grimacing. And even though it's consensual? I can't watch. I'm too busy fighting with an industrial-strength massage chair that tenderizes my back into pulpy flank steaks and vibrates my eyeballs with the ferocity of a jackhammer. By the time I get out of that chair, I'm exhausted and a little ready for a barbiturate.
Given my clear aversion to such cruelty, why would I go through this? Simple. My plain jane feet look awesome all dolled up. Something about buffed, polished, shiny toenails that make you feel sexy everywhere else, as if you might use those feet for something, you know, provocative later.
And then someone completely HAWT and utterly kissable recently said he liked "Red, always red." And I thought, hey, that's an invitation . . . Red it is. Plus, that same boy thinks my feet look symmetrical. I'm pretty sure he meant my feet look like a celebrated international rock star's, but he cagily downplayed his—I think we can safely assume—insanely bizarre fetish with the always charming "your feet look symmetrical" card.
To be honest, my feet are not my best feature, but all dolled up they're darn close. Here, have a look at my roomie's and my feet, shown here after a particularly torturous toenail treatment. I'm on the left with an Asian-inspired, diamond-studded black flower on my hallux (that's "big toe"—you had to learn something while you were here).
Note, Roomie's second toe is longer than her hallux. She tells me that's an indication of advanced brain activity. Clearly, I belong on the short bus. But that's okay. My feet are symmetrical, and that's something when there's some serious shit going on in the world.
This was also seen over at Studio Thirty Plus, where we still know stuff.
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The Elusive Spirit of Christmas
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