I took the week of our move off work. I was floating on fumes and nary a wisp of patience or kindness when it finally arrived. Months of living out of boxes after a year of living in suburban hell, movers that were four hours late, cable guys that were two hours early, boxes and kittens and fur balls like tumbleweeds dancing across concrete had taken their toll. The Mc didn’t have enough PTO saved up to unpack with me and wow, what a blessing. I needed time to nest, recharge, reacclimate and reengage, Mr. Sulu! Preferably solo Sulu.
After threve bijillion trips from the apartment to the condo to the apartment to the condo with my not-as-much-cargo-space-as-you’d-think filled to the gills with plants, shoes, and piles of items I failed to pack for the movers in what I can only describe as stress induced delusions of “I can get that-itis”, I decided I’d stop. I’d stop on the way to the condo and treat myself to a little mani-pedi action at a place I’d just been introduced to to a few months before.
After a delicious soak and with warmed silk eye pillow and buckwheat neck pillows in place, I was reclined in an anti-gravity chair and starting to check out. My technician and I chatted while she massaged and trimmed, then she fell silent.
“What is it?” I whipped my eye pillow off as she lifted my foot this way and that, angling it in the light, sqinting her eyes and saying “huh” again.
“I’ll be right back.”
She gets up and scurries off, leaving me to lift my foot to my face, mortified, blushing wildly and counting my blessings that it’s 2pm on a weekday and I’m the only one in the salon.
A few moments later she returns with reinforcements. An attractive blond, presumably the salon manager hmmmed and grunted while examining my feet. The concensus: some sort of fungus and it wasn’t athletes foot.
I yelped and whimpered and whines the likes of Nellie on Little House on the Prarie seeped out of my lips with words like “I’m the cootie customer!” and “I have funky feet!”
I was horrified. I’m still horrified. You’re probably horrified. The next time you see me you’ll stare at my feet, unable to think of anything else. It’s happening to me every morning.
Luckily I have an awesome GP about my age who also grew up in Anchorage, and my visit started off with a good ten minutes of Palin mocking. Ahhhh a slice of home right here in the hot hot.
Short story far longer than it should be, whatever it is isn’t anything special or that scary. I have a fancy lotion to make the dead skin on my feet slough off and I need to stay hydrated, and maybe not wear flip flops in the rain in Atlanta anymore…though he tried to convince me that didn’t have anything to do with it. Psha. Like he’s a doctor or something.