I traded in a good portion of my “man-card” yesterday, as I went with my wife and mother in law for a pedicure.
True, my feet were all sorts of nasty, discolored, rotten and just plain gross, but it was still a tough decision to go along with it.
[For those wondering why I would blog about this experience, I made a promise to my wife that I would. Man of my word.]
This decision did not take place in a vacuum. On our trip to Thailand last year, I had a foot scrub mishap, which led to over two DOZEN burns in the bottom of my left foot. It was the most painful experience I could ever remember, and four months later, it still hasn’t completely healed. Needless to say, I was skeptical about having treatment on my feet, but after my wife offered to pay for it and an hour spent staring at my grotesque toes for a bit, I decided to give it a go.
I’m not going to give play-by-play of a pedicure because, well, I’m sure the women reading this know about it and the men reading don’t really care. Just know that they used several sharp blades, countless lotions and a hot stone. And now my toenails are shiny. Who knew?
Overall, the experience was nowhere near as emasculating as I thought it would be. The massaging chair was phenomenal and the rubs felt pretty nice! I don’t think this is EVER a service I would regularly get, but maybe once a year, it isn’t the worst thing in the world. [Insert your own metrosexual joke(s) here.]
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