Years ago, my boss took me to get a pedicure on my BDay.  I was immediately hooked.  I had never known the joys of having someone rub your feet for 30-60 minutes while cleaning a variety of goop out from under your toes.

Pedicures, while all the rage, still seem decadent and unnecessary to me.  It’s kind of a splurge when I get one. Oddly, some of the best pedicures are also the most inexpensive.  If you find a good shop, run by sensible Asians who know what the hell they’re doing — you’ve found nirvana.

Over the weekend I talked my friend Teresa in to getting a pedicure with me. Within 45 seconds of immersing her feet in the bubbling cauldron of sea salt, Teresa was sound asleep. Good thing she picked out the color of her toenail polish beforehand.  Who picks the names of the colors anyway? They’re very clever.  I would just call it what they are … “Fire Engine Red” or “Blood Red” or “Good Ol’ Fashioned Whore Red”.

Sometimes when I get a pedicure, the women in the nail salon look at me like I’m a unicorn.  And they seem a little apprehensive to work on my feet. Then, of course, they quickly realize my toes will not require an ungodly amount of time.  I’m sure they have guys come in with feet that resemble hoofs.  I had a nail tech once that politely pointed out my big toe had a nasty fungus.  I was so grossed out, I immediately went to the doctor.  Mercifully, she painted my one rogue toe with an iridescent nail polish.  I have to admit it covered the fungus nicely.

If I’m gonna have a vice in life, it might as well be pedicures. Because Lord knows, I cannot handle — in any way, shape or form — people touching my hands.  Manicures are wrong on so many levels, I don’t even know WHERE to start.