(Originally posted on 12/19/2015)
I knew it would happen, and because it happened, one bottle of white wine lost its battle to stay corked. The other bottle is in fear of its fateful uncorking. I write of painting my own toenails as I sit with lower back pain, a heating pad and a glossy gray-blue polish tauntingly trailing behind me. Ladies, I beg of you, don’t do it. Step away from the DIY nail polish and give it up for natural toes or maybe start rockin’ some press-on toenails!
This is how it all went down. It wasn’t pretty.
It all began when my last pedicure, a funky red color, was $1,000. Well, not $1,000. Treating my mother to her 65th birthday at a resort spa, the not-a-care-in-the-world birthday momma flits away to a relaxing massage while I sachet like Martha Graham to my pedicure. “Would you like paraffin for your feet and hands, too? Well, of course! Thinking, this additional treatment should cost no more than an extra $40 or so. Wah wah wah. Alex, I’ll take “Pedicures Gone Wrong!” for $100. Yes, my original already too expensive $110 pedicure ended up costing $245! Seriously? Who knew paraffin was actually liquid gold?
Lesson learned. I’d been meaning to go the do-it-yourself route anyway. Wine money must be saved. Fast forward 4 weeks later and my $245 toes look like a 4-year-old painted them.
So let’s do this. Prep and paint. I’ll be done in 30 minutes. It will be like a mini in-home spa day.
Nail polish remover. Check. Cotton balls. I only have two, but that should do. Check. Nail file. Check. Polish. Check. Good to go.
Hmm. I’ll prop my right foot on the bathroom vanity while standing on my left leg and bend over to remove the polish. Easy peasy. I’ve been meaning to get back to yoga, but I’m sure I’m still bendy. Drench first cotton ball in remover, place on big toe with the funky red polish and a blood bath of red begins streaming down my toe, onto my foot, onto my fingers, down to my elbow and into the sink. Simultaneously, so as not to mess up the vanity, I’ve quickly hopped on my left leg to get my damn right foot into the damn sink. My right knee is now touching my chin while the balancing left leg is quivering. And guess what? That’s right. The polish isn’t budging. Pedicure lady must’ve used Cement Red #9. I rub and rub and rub and rub all the while thinking I have one cotton ball left and 9 more flippin’ toes!
Okay. Relax. Think serene spa thoughts. Stand up. Stretch out my back. Back at it. Rub rub rub scour scour scour. So there’s still some red polish left on the sides. It won’t matter. New color will cover it up. Move on. Next big toe. Same scenario, but at least I know what to expect. But now I’m left with zero cotton balls and 8 toes. Toilet paper! Drench the toilet paper in remover, place on smaller toenail and watch the toilet paper disintegrate into teeny tiny rolled pieces of red paper as I continue to scour the damn polish off.
Check the time. It’s been 30 minutes. Forget any foot scrub. My lower back is angry and I’m beyond pissed. Filing would’ve been a no-brainer except remember that contortionist move of hopping on one leg to get closer to the vanity? Well, in performing that brilliant 80s breakdance move, I jammed my big toe into the lower edge of the door and chipped off the side of my left big toenail. That toe now needed to be filed to take on a ski slope look! You know the one. High on one side and half way down your toe on the other side. Not pretty. Filing is complete. Moving on to polish. Low back is screaming at me!
Remember the bit of red that was still around most of the edges? As I quickly applied the gray-blue polish, it was becoming apparent that all of my toes would now be outlined in red. All of my toes looked as if they were bleeding! An hour and fifteen minutes later:
The Husband: What have you been doing? Me: Having a fucking spa day, okay! Now I need wine. Stat. The Husband: Baby, it’s 10AM. Me: I’m in pain. See...my bloody toes!
Zenitude for today:
Never take your low back for granted and always have more than two cotton balls.