I'm a big fan of the summer pedicure. I basically live in flip flops from the beginning of May until whenever the you betchya! winter gods decide to hurl snow at us. Where I live, this has been known to happen by Halloween. Long underwear is my second-skin.
My belief that exposed feet should do all that they can in order to avoid offending those who are forced to look at them began years ago. I used to work for a magazine that had a reputation for being a bit on the crunchy, deodorant free, hippie side of life. While not all of us embraced the downscaled hygiene routine, a few took full advantage. Some hardly wore clothes to work, sporting shorts and rags that could possibly pass as loin cloths.
One of the most faithful of the hippies would drag around the office, knuckles scraping the floor, barefoot and hairy. This guy had enough hair on his big toe, you could braid it. He also had feet the size of a stretch Hummer with unfortunate looking nails. My office was along his route from the editorial department to the kitchen. And man was this beast hungry. I caught one glimpse of those size 16 ferbies one hot summer day and was tortured by the thought of them for years. Clearly, I still have some issues to work out.
Y loves getting pedicures and I always go with her for a little relaxing foot spa action and some valuable People magazine catch up time. When we arrive at the salon, she always asks me the same question:
What color are you going to get?
I think about this for a few minutes, wondering if I could really "do" color this time. All of the pretty bottles lined up by the door with hilarious names like "I'm not really a waitress" pull me in. But would it clash with my flops? And better yet - would I feel like I'm in drag? The tomboy wears plumb or Mauve-lous Memories? I don't think so. And so after about two minutes of deliberation, I reach for the ol' standby. The Clear Polish.
I want a job working for O.P.I. naming polish. Just for a week or so and then they can fire me. I think there's money to be made catering to the, how shall we say, lesbo-pedi crowd? I can speak to my people, you see. But we'll first have to start with polish names that evoke a more homo-sensibility than Argenteeny Pinkini.
My contributions to the new O.P.I. girl-gay line:
"Touch me, I'm so beautiful ..."