Mee My Mo: My life as I know it, breathe it, live it and love it!

So this story begins in the middle; the middle of my journey to realizing why I have a hang up about pedicures. For Mother's Day this year I asked for a Ped Egg from my children. I am a mother of four children and rarely do I have the time or the energy to spend on myself. I am a no nonsense type of girl anyway so actually spending time to care for my feet is a luxury. (Side note here: I have really dried out feet, cracked so bad that when I went to Mexico I came back with blood poisoning....now back to the story). Although I don't usually allow myself such privileges I was ashamed of my ugly feet when I was at my Bible study and the women got off on the topic of sandals...which led into feet...which led into the Ped Egg. However from all this talk I held on to one comment, it was; "It's almost sandal wearing time and all women should have tidy feet." I nonchalantly looked down at my gnarled mess of feet and saw first of all I was already wearing sandals (another one of the things I rarely do is pay attention to fashion season. For goodness sake, that is too much work!) My toenails weren't painted, or even trimmed nicely, my feet were dried and my heels were all of a sudden tattling my secret of unlady like proportion. I knew it deep in my heart...my feet were not tidy. I curled my toes in as if nobody would notice them that way. This wasn't working, so I pulled my feet in under my chair. When I got home I clearly stated my want of the miraculous Ped Egg. This was it; this would dissolve my shame!


Fast forward to a few weeks ago. My mother invited all of her girls over to give us pedicures. She scrubbed, exfoliated, massaged and painted 8 feet and 40 toes! She could have taken the easy way out and afforded herself the treat to get her feet done and just pay for all of us to go, but no. She instead served with great humbleness. It was a blessing. The reason behind this is she knows I don't care for pedicures at salons. They tickle me and I feel like an unclassed hillbilly as I can't stop pulling my feet away while laughing. Not only that but my feet are so uncared for I feel like they are judging me. Plus, the one and only time I went the asian woman attending to my woeful mess asked if she could do my eyebrows as well. I hesitantly said, "Um...what will they look like?" Her painfully honest, or maybe just plain rude response was, "betta than they look wight now!" I said no, in rebellious protest to the insult. Whether the insult by them or the insult of my feet to them, I have never returned.


Now let's go back to why this pedicure issue has been a haunting one. I finally realized I am damaged goods when it comes to pedicures, and here is why: Picture it… Portland, Oregon, circa 1990. I was just a young, carefree girl living the La vida loco in Portland. It was my first experience with big city and well, the city just called my name...so much so I rarely attended high school. To the advice of my mother I had better get some extra credits before I failed. I was then enrolled in an extracurricular project that would give me high school credits: working at a salon for free. This wasn't bad, I actually enjoyed it. I learned how to give facial, manicures, pedicures, and put perm rollers in. Most of the clients that came in were elderly and I had a great time chatting it up with them. I felt I was actually going to acting school as I would prepare myself to get in to character as a beautician, as I really didn't have the greatest skill. I talked the talk and knew just enough to fool the client. All was going well, until that fateful day. I was told by my manager that I had a client for a pedicure. I quickly greeted her and sat her down and introduced myself. I began to take off her shoes and there before me were the yellowist, thickest toenails I had ever seen. I continued and placed her feet in the warm water. I let them soak for a bit longer than usual as I tried to get the courage up to massage them. I took one out and began massaging as I made small talk with her. She was loving the massage and I could tell by her worn feet she must work hard. I was right, she was a hard worker...she was a school lunch lady. Somehow, knowing that made matters worse as the stigmatic visions of a lunch lady danced in my head; hairy mole, dirty teeth, mean, old woman. I was having an internal conflict: If I breathe through my nose I smell her crusty feet. If I breathe through my mouth I will inhale her skin. I keep going between the two. It was now time to cut, no chop in this case, her toenails. I am making some progress but come to the big toe. I am struggling with my eyes squinched and my mouth open as I am truly working hard. Then it happens, the layered toe nail was so soaked it began crumbling and as I cut it shot up and like a projectile a piece of the crumbling rocket flew into the back of my throat!!! I dropped her foot and stuck out my tongue as I gagged and I felt it drop down my throat. I swallowed her toenail. I will say it again, I swallowed the lunch lady's toenail!! I jumped to my feet and ran to the bathroom. I abandoned all client etiquette. I looked desperately for someone, anyone to give me direction. What is the protocol of swallowing a toenail?! This was never mentioned in my mandatory classes. I frantically ran to tell my coworkers. They just laughed.


I would like to put this all behind me now but I have to realize that my experience has shaped me into what I am today. I am a woman that suffers with pedicure phobia