Leave my callous attitude alone
I have a confession. (Yes, another one.) I’ve never had a pedicure.
I look at feet as very utilitarian body parts. Treating them like dainty appendages makes no sense to me. Wow, you have cute little footies that are soft and sweet as a baby’s bottom? They’re really going to serve you well if you dash across a blazing asphalt parking lot after your running toddler, or scramble through the passengers marooned in their high heels toward the emergency exit when your flight goes down, or…okay, so I live with a little imaginative anxiety.
My foot thing starts with the fact that I spent a lot of years barefoot. Why, I’m so old that I clearly recall the Time Before No Shirt/No Shoes signs. Really. Where I live and was raised, the temperature averages in the 80s – no frostbite worries. Bare feet are happy feet here. And if they’re too soft, you’ll be the weenie at the back of the race, yelling for everyone else to “Wait up! These rocks hurt my feet!” (I can hear the evil cackles from childhood now…)
Recently, with headlines screaming the newest spa treatment – pedicures given by flesh-eating fish, a better-heeled friend told me how she “had to use acid” to remove the calluses on her feet. Had to. She said it three times because I made good use of the hubbub around us (we were at a party) in pretending not to hear. She must’ve thought I should follow suit, looking at my almost-always-sandaled feet. All I could think was, “Well, there’s a real caustic balance to her usual penchant for avoiding plastic things made in China and eating only organic.”
We choose our battles.
My feet are my friends. I’ll not be subjecting them to acid. I’m proud of the fact that I can brave the hot beach sand without whining. If you’re looking at my feet and deciding whether you want to be my friend, I’m sure that I don’t care.
I’ll beat you to the water.