I’ve made no secret of the fact that I have the world’s toughest, driest feet. I could walk a bed of coals and not feel it. I could walk on the asphalt of a Texas parking lot in July barefoot. I could strike a match on my feet’s bare skin.
You get my drift.
It’s so bad, I can’t deal with them myself. I’ve got to have professionals chisel away at them with instruments that would make Medieval Dungeon Masters tremble with excitement.
I know many women like to have their toenails painted. I don’t often bother with that…not because I don’t like a flash of color every now and again, but more because I really don’t feel the need to draw further attention to the crocodile skin that covers my feet.
I’ve had all kinds of remedies thrust upon me, by friends, family, podiatrists, even horrified, well-meaning strangers on the street. None of them seem to be able to prevent the tough (UNDERSTATEMENT) callouses from forming.
The problem with having to go to the pros, though, is that it costs money. And, much like I’d rather cut my own bangs (and mutilate them in the process) than pay someone else to do it, I also would rather save a few bucks by limiting my visits to the nail salon.
So I wait until my feet are so dry and thick and cracked, they bleed.
(Who wants me now?!)
And that is when My Captain gets the SuperGlue out and cements them back together.
Sadly, I’m not kidding.
(He is SO lucky!)
Two nights ago, I was helping my critter get ready for his bath, and he was looking down with a concerned look on his face.
“Mom, what’s wrong with your feet?”
“They’re just dry, honey.”
“Well put something wet on them!”
And then last night as we were getting ready for bed, My Captain had the same look of concern on his face as he looked at my feet and he said, “When are you going to the nail salon?”
Now, it’s one thing if women notice my nasty feet. I mean, women CARE about things like that. (or, at least some women). Men don’t usually give a rat’s butt about feet. Unless they have some kind of alien fungus on them…which mine DO NOT have. Let me be clear about THAT.
But in the space of two evenings, both of the most important men in my life expressed thinly veiled disgust at my little tootsies. And by little I mean a size 11, Wide.
Not wishing to be a source of repugnance in my own house, I hightailed it to the Poolesville Nail Salon, where a young man named Leo waited on me.
He takes one look at me and says, “I remember you.”
Great. Just Great.
He’s got his tools out and he’s doing his darndest to make a dent in the layers and layers of steel-like epidermis on the soles of my dogs when I ask him, “You are going to use the Callous-removing acid, right?”
He nodded and says, in his thick, asian, matter of fact tone, “I see you coming, I get big bottle out. Everyone only take one application of callous cream. Not you. You need three.”
I believe I went down at least one whole shoe size when he was done with me.
So I’ve got that going for me.
I can relate, except I refer to my feet as “chicken yard feet.” Not because I’ve ever been in a chicken yard, but it’s a phrase my loving family members use to describe cracked, dry feet. Makes me feel like a woman. Femininity at its best…
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