During the month of December I went for two pedicures. Ok, fine! It was two mani/pedis if you really must know.
Typing that feels like some sort of confession...
Anyway, the first was the night before my sister Gabrielle's wedding. My other sister, Geneviève, and I went for manicures and pedicures and, while the lovely ladies pushed back our cuticles and massages our calves, we wrote our speech for the wedding.
Not that you really need to know this but the colour I chose for the wedding was fire engine red (very festive and it worked well with my silver sandals).
The second time I went was with my mother. It was the day before Doug and I headed to New York and a few days before my parents headed to Israel for wedding number two. I felt the need to look at least 10% glamourous before heading to the Big Apple and my mother wanted nice toenails for the beach. This time, I chose a dark purple colour called Lincoln Park After Dark. I chose it 40% for the colour and 60% for the name.
Anyway, the whole point about this story is that I apparently have very nice feet.
Normally, when one goes for a pedicure, they fill a foot bath full of hot water and soak your feet in it. Then they cut and shape your toenails and work on the cuticles for a while. The last step is to work on your calluses. I've seen some ladies squirming in pain (or perhaps they're just very ticklish?) while their calluses are vigorously rubbed off. I've seen other ladies sit immobile as a razor is taken to their feet to remove all the dead skin.
The first time I was there, I witnessed the razor thing. I decided then and there to refuse that option because a) that's just plain crazy and b) I don't think taking a razor to a person with diabetes' feet is a really good idea.
When the lady lifted my foot to look underneath, her eyebrows raised in shock. "You have really good feet!" she exclaimed.
The second and third time I went, I got the same shocked reaction. Apparently my feet, which I took as normal since they're the only feet I've ever known, are not all that typical after all.
Despite years of running and virtual lack of care (I wash them in the shower and that's pretty much it), they have no calluses, no blisters, no hard skin to exfoliate.
So, while the other ladies around me writhe in pain or squirm with giggles as their feet are exfoliated, razored and buffed to a shine, I get an extra long calf massage and a "you have really good feet!".
Perhaps I should ask for a discount?