I got a pedicure today. There's no denying that it is an especially hedonistic delight having someone clean, massage, and pamper your feet with decoration. Mine were in critical need, having not been attended to since my trip to Hawaii in March. Now they are beautiful and happy feet again.
The pure pleasure of the experience had a tender side as well. It was not quite a year ago that I sat in this same shop, having learned that my husband was probably terminal, and wept through my pedicure. It was quite alarming to the technician, who thought she had injured me and became even more gentle with her ministrations. Of course, the more gently she touched me, the harder I wept. I could not/would not cry in front of Bill, and the healing touch of another person had opened the floodgates.
One of the things Bill and I had enjoyed as a couple was going for pedicures together, particularly in the summer. He was that comfortable with his masculinity. Additionally, he had some of the nastiest toenails on any human being, and I really didn't like messing with them. We would sit and soak our feet together and chat while one of a dozen or so southeast Asian women trimmed, and filed, and buffed our toes. We worked out more than one or two family problems while our feet were groomed. It was an activity that ended when his left leg was amputated in December 2006. I didn't get pedicures as often after that. I still don't go as often as I should to keep sandal-ready feet. Today was the beginning of Memorial Day weekend, however, and pool-opening is tomorrow. It was a matter of public safety that my feet be tended to.
Besides, I had a gift certificate that I needed to use: Bill's last Christmas gift to me. I'd held on to it since Christmas 2009. Bill was a Scot. He would have hated it if I didn't use it and the money was wasted. And that is why, once again, I found myself weeping while my toes were dancing.