If My Feet Stink it's Because I Kick Ass

Looking down at my hardened, pale Canadian winter feet this weekend and realized that something needed to be done. You see, Dear Reader, Sheena hops off to a Jamaican getaway on Wednesday and her Southern Bell travel companion is distinctly more high maintenance than I am. Yes, you heard right. I am not high maintenance.

This became crashingly clear when El Chaperone had to vaccuum up a trail of dried out skin flakes after my walk down the dark carpeted hallway.

My feet have often been a source of issues. Almost cutting off my big toe at age 7 by stepping on a broken beer bottle at the beach, passing out from blood loss, breaking the stitches the next day trying to go to the bathroom by myself, and living since that day with an ugly nubbly easily calloused scar. Never being able to get the hang of wearing socks. Not giving a shit about the risks of running barefoot day and night outside down back lanes and gravel parking lots and playing hide and seek at the plastic factory down the street that burnt down. Barefoot.

Didn't have my first pedicure until my 30s. Some years I keep it up - go every few weeks, touch it up at home. Other years - like the last one - I have just ignored my tootsies and avoided sandals.

This week I felt peer pressure to have nice toes and clean smooth heels. So I went to see the girl who rents a room in the basement of my hairdresser.

The soaking felt great. Trimming and cuticle poking made me feel girlie. And then she looked at the underside of my feet. Flipped them around with strong wristed authority.

"Your feet look tired", she concluded. I was a bit miffed. Who was she to judge. Bitch. But then she continued to buff and polish and slather and massage as though dispelling the tiredness was her own personal mission. She gave me shit about the dryness ("Look at this - I put on the heavy duty scream and [then she made a slurping sound] it's all sucked in!") and did my shoes fit properly and I felt guilted into a $12.50 additional purchase for a giant emery board to keep working on the worst spots when I got home this week. She seemed to love my feet more than I did and I wondered if that needed to change.

The colour I picked out was even prettier on me than in the bottle, a deep peaceful rose that made me smile. (Not giant yellow gitch magnitude of smile, but still pretty good).

El Chaperone loved it and offered to give me a foot massage if it would help keep it pretty. Maybe this will be one of those keep it up years.

The mirror never lies.