We got through all of that, and I did relatively well, alternating between bouts of intense shame and hysterical laughter… and then she brought out the pumice. (For the men out there, a pumice is a tool used to slough off dead skin. “Slough off” means get rid of. And yes, gentlemen, you really should slough off dead skin.) She raised my foot out of the dreamy-warm whirlpool bath and started scrubbing. On the BOTTOM. Where I’d rather die than let someone touch me.

I lost it. Here’s me, 41 years old, supposedly owning at least some dignity, wife of a successful man, mother of two… giggling hysterically. Big, whopping belly laughs. Tears running down my face. And that was BEFORE she actually touched me – that was merely the suspense, the knowing it was coming. Once the pumice made contact and the sloughing began, everyone in the room had stopped what they were doing and was staring straight at me. I simply couldn’t stop laughing; it tickled that bad.

We eventually made it past the sloughing, I gathered up the last of my shredded dignity, and she began the massage. Oy! It was, finally, too much. In the end, I’m sure I skipped a full half of my pedicure. I simply couldn’t bear it.

The upside of it all is that my feet look so pretty! They are soft and clean and shiny, and my toenails are VERY clean, and painted a nice spring pink.

I can’t say for certain whether I’ll do it again. I do think, however, that the poor girl who was forced to deal with my nasty feet, my braying laugh and my hysteria may run when she sees me coming. Heck, she might quit her job altogether and do something infinitely more pleasurable, like sell used cars.

Oh, the price of vanity!