01.11.18, 4:32pm: Just Make it Quick *sweats*

I actually started sweating.

I had some time to kill today so I stopped into a local nail salon and rolled up my pant legs prepping for a pedi. There’s a decent amount of psyching myself into having my toes done. I’m horrendously ticklish. Anyone and everyone close to me in my life is warned: 1) do not touch me below the knees unexpectedly, and 2) if you tickle me, I am not responsible for your injuries.

If the nail tech is light with the fingers and runs whatever tool they’re using across the arch of my foot? I’m not having a good time. I hope for someone to handle my feet like meat.

Today started off fine. The water was a bit hot, but the man adjusted it and I got lost somewhere between my phone and a home improvement show on the television. I can do this. He took off the polish on my left foot; no problem.

He took off the polish on my right foot—WARNING.

Uh oh. That’s never happened. He just took off the polish. Why is my right foot already distressing? Mentally I prepared myself for the rest of the pedicure. The worst was coming. Breathe, Woz. You can do this. The result is worth the struggle.

Going through his motions, he treated my benign left foot with some sort of oil, massaging it over my nails and between each toe, and then moved to the right foot.

HOLY GOOD GOD DAMN.

My right leg immediately tensed. I grabbed my face, hid my eyes, made some dolphin-like noise and suppressed the instinct to reflex-kick him in the face.

I attempted to push through it. “Oh my god, stop!” I couldn’t handle it. I pulled my foot away and broke into a light sweat. Taking a deep breath, I placed my foot back into his workspace, “Just do it. *exhale* Make it quick.”

He grabbed me by the ankle and manhandled my foot; scraping the pumice stone over almost every square inch. It was agony. Thankfully, he avoided the arch—I’m really not sure I wouldn’t have stood immediately erect—but he spent way too much time on my I-need-those-for-class callouses.

Moving into the polish phase, I collected myself. He applied various coats and the color I chose. Positioning the fan near my feet, he left me alone while my toes dried. Usually, they let me sit around until I’m ready to leave; I didn’t have anywhere to be for like 20 minutes. The place wasn’t busy; there were more open than occupied chairs. He returned and lightly touched my toenails, “The top should be dry by now.” It had been maybe, not even, five minutes. He actually unrolled one of my pant legs, “Do they go all the way down?”

“No, I’m short. Leave one cuff up. Thanks.”

I’ll do better next time. Maybe. Probably not.

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