242/365

After a summer of sandals day in and day out, the feet need some help. Here's a great thing about having a bunch of daughters, I can nearly always find someone to join me on an outing. We walk in and immediately find empty seats. Debating colors, I finally take a bottle off the shelf and wait to be called. I take off my sandals and roll up my pants. I push the buttons on the remote control until the chair moves in every manner possible, pulsing and kneading and rolling and vibrating my spine. My feet soak in a tub of warm bluish waters. The dear lady sits on s short rolling stool, hunched at my feet, my calloused, Fred Flintstone-yabba-dabba-dooo, feet. She pushes  on my cuticles and clips and files and smooths my toenails. I'm pretty sure that she pulls out the cheese grater and the wood rasp to remove the dead skin on my heels. She lotions my legs. She paints on University Red and a top coat of shiny clear on those chubby toes (better balance, say I!). And after nearly 30 minutes of work, those feet of mine look amazingly, almost miraculously, neat and clean. She slips each of my feet carefully into a crazy flip flop contraption and I'm ready to shuffle out the door. But bless. She sits at people's nasty feet all day. She listens to gossip and telanovelas and one-sided phone conversations. She inhales the fumes of acetone and polish. I hope my tip and smiles and multiple thank you's is enough.