The undeniable fact remains, however, that I finally (and momentarily) joined the ranks of high society with my first ever pedicure.
The momentous event was sponsored by a dear friend for my birthday. It was not quite the life-changing event promised by another dear friend who suggested that you can literally feel the tension drip from your shoulders during the foot rub (which is why she prescribes a monthly pedicure for dissertation writers). And which is why I fully expected that other patrons would slip on the pile of stress destined to accumulate near my chair. I figured it would probably even require one of those yellow "caution: wet floor" signs. Regretfully, however, I retained much of my stress even after the nice pedicurist put clay and a warm towel on my feet. But I did emerge with very cute toenails.
This photo is evidence of my foray into feminine frivolity. I have just removed the last remnants of polish -- although even in their glory days my toes remained mostly covered up due to a rapid descent into a very chilly autumn. (Who in her right mind gets her first, ever pedicure late September in Michigan?!)
It didn't seem right to have a pedicure without a manicure. So, not long after getting my toes dolled up, I went whole-hog and got a very special manicure. It took nearly three hours and would have taken MUCH longer had it not been for the generous tutelage and assistance of another kind friend. (An aside: this little project was but another one of the zillion pursuits where a Ph.D. turns out to be perfectly useless.)
What do you think?
Yep. That's a spark plug. And my little Subaru now has four brand new ones.
Turns out that although it was kind of fun to be pampered at the salon, I feel more at home as Rosie the Riveter.
