Don't laugh. Yet. I haven't actually done it. Yet. I do have to wonder, though. Which would be more expensive in the long run-- weekly pedicures, beaucoup $$ spent on foot lotions, or the emergency trip to the hospital when this Black & Decker idea goes awry?
We've already established that I am not a girly-girl. Weekly pedicures are out. It's not merely a matter of the expense, either. First off, I was lost the one and only time I got a pedicure. What do I do now? Where do I sit? How did I know you were supposed to pick your polish color right then? To make matters worse, the technician (what's the right title here? foot rubber extraordinaire? toenail scrubber? beauteous-uppus-footus person?) and I did not speak the same language. That's all well and good, until someone is trying to make you understand what she's going to do with your feet in that vat of roiling water! Seriously, I felt like a dweeb, and I couldn't even ask a question because who knows how to pantomime "sorry my feet are so rough and you have to touch them, and by the way, that slapping and beating on my fat calves is not really something I enjoy" ??
If pedicures, at least regular ones, are not an option, then what about all those special lotions in the foot care aisle at the local Wally-world? Six dollars for a tube of Miraculous Callous Remover, six dollars for a bottle of WowItWorks softening lotion, six dollars for a Callous Removing DooHickey with a handle, another six dollars for an already assembled Callous Removing DooHickey because I couldn't figure out how to attach the handle of the previous one. It all adds up, and I still haven't subtracted rough feet from my life equation.
You might think I'm carrying things a little too far when I contemplate using that Black & Decker sander and polisher on these sad soles, and you might be right. I'm just a tad bit flummoxed by this whole pretty feet dilemma.
Princess Barefoot was my "handle" waaaaaaaaaaaay back in the 1970's when CB's were all the rage. For those of you who've never watched Smokey and the Bandit or listened to C.W. McCall, CB stands for citizen band radio. It was fun, especially the all important decision upon just the right nickname for yourself. My father's handle was Baby Huey. It's been so long ago, I can't remember the handles my mom and brother and sister used. Of course, I remember mine-- Princess Barefoot. Never met a shoe I couldn't like, BUT I also never met a shoe I wanted to wear more than five minutes if I wasn't being stared down by a No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service sign.
Barefoot is the way to go. Pfft. Who cares if some guru somewhere can walk across a bed of hot coals? I can walk across a gravel driveway without flinching. Nay, in my better barefoot days, I could hip, hop, almost run across a short expanse of gravel.
Sadly, I can't do that any more. You see, I've grown up and realized these things. If I must wear shoes, then I'd prefer those shoes to be sandals. If I prefer to wear sandals, then I must be prepared for the inevitability that someone is going to see the bottom of my feet. If someone is going to see the bottom of my feet, then I guess I'd better attempt to keep the callous population under at least minimal control. If I wish to keep the callous population under some semblance of control, then I must not go barefoot. . .ever. A single day of going barefoot foils all the lotion slathering and foot soaking. . .usually within ten minutes. Drat it all.
You need some stock market advice? Let me suggest you look into petroleum. Petroleum, as in Vaseline or any other petroleum jelly, is going to see an upsurge in sales. Uh, huh. I've figured it all out. From now on, I'm going barefoot when my feet touch the ground, but as soon as I sit or sleep, my feet are going to be buried in a tub of Vaseline.
Hey, wish me luck, okay?
Oh, and I wouldn't ask to borrow any of my shoes. You know, just in case I did have to drag my feet out of the tub and put on footware. . .