nails

So there I was on the most beautiful. day. ever., which happened to have been Saturday. I had a crappy run, but was outside in the sunshine, so I didn't even care. I had a visitor I was ever so excited to see and got some errands done, all of which kept me outside for a good chunk of the day. Sunshine and warmth and no humidity and a street fair surrounded me. We should always be so lucky in New York, where the weather is nothing, if not unpredictable.

Toward the end of the day, I decided I should get a pedicure to cap off the beautiful day. Plus nobody likes jacked up feet with long, disgusting toenails. I marched myself around the corner, picked out a lovely shade of deep maroon and hopped in the spa chair. All seemed to be going well.

As per usual, the pedicurist tried to talk me into some $60 green tea, wax bootie, super massage pedi, but while I will spring for the pedicure, I am not interested in spending sixty of my hard-earned dollars for some lady to put lotion and paraffin wax on my feet, so I declined. She tried a few other "specials" and I finally relented at an extra ten minute leg massage, which it turns out, I actually really needed.

As things were wrapping up and the paint on my toes began to dry, I was directed over to the drying station, where the salon workers will give you a quick shoulder rub, while your toes are under the little blow dryer, finishing off. As I headed over, I was diverted to the massage chair. You know, those chairs you see at the mall or at road races, where you straddle the seat and rest with your stomach and head down so that a tiny person with really strong hands can massage your back without the full on table set up. I was tired by that point and wasn't paying attention, so I got in the chair and chilled out. I should point out that this chair was literally smack dab in the middle of the tiny salon, and was fully visible from outside the front door (which was wide open). She started on my shoulders and I was blown away by the tension and number of knots in my back and shoulders. The pedicurist-cum-massage therapist was actually doing a great job!

Until.

Suddenly, the bottom of my shirt was about halfway up my back and I felt the cool drip of a glob of lotion on my lower back. I started to sit up, but the pedi woman shushed me and said it was fine and to let her finish. That is, until she undid my bra and pushed my shirt completely up my back. Being in such a compromised and prone position, there wasn't a lot I could do but flail my arms as she told me to calm down and just let her continue, because my back was so full of knots and tension that she was compelled to smooth the situation out. I remarked that showing side-boob and an inordinate amount of back fat to a bunch of strangers wasn't really my gig and I heard some chuckles from the peanut gallery of women getting manicures nearby.

I sat, exposed, for a good twenty minutes before she was finished. People came and went and I could feel their stares as they passed by the massage chair on their way to less invasive experiences. Finally - mercifully - the exposure was over and I literally jumped out of the chair, credit card in hand. I noticed, as I paid and sprinted out the door, that every single eyeball in the place was firmly fixed on my beet red face. I have to find a new nail place now.

But my toes look great.