“Peasants,” I thought as I looked down on the rest of the world.

It hadn’t been that long since I was in that category myself, but today I was up on my pedicure throne in the nail shop, the lap of luxury, where I was treating myself to a much needed pedicure. I had promised myself this particular episode six months ago and now I was finally collecting.

You see, back last summer I lost a toenail. I won’t go into the gruesome details of what is now ancient history. Suffice it to say, it has been a long road to recovery as toenails grow much slower than fingernails.

My feet were so ugly all summer that I had to keep them hidden in heavy shoes — right after I had purchased several pairs of new summer sandals too. Of all the narcissistic luck.  I tried to cover the offending toe by employing the use of a band-aid. There was no use. My feet were just plain ugly. Ugly feet do absolutely nothing for a woman’s self-esteem.

I counted the days, weeks, months until the faint appearance of the regrowing nail. I had almost decided that it was gone forever, and my toe would be forever naked. When it finally began to grow, I promised myself that I would treat my feet to a professional pedicure when it grew back.

Now, at last, it was time.

“I really needed this,” I said to the lady in the next pedicure chair as I sank back and let my feet soak in the blue waters of the foot spa.

“I usually do my own,” she confessed, “But I felt lazy this time.”

I didn’t go into my personal situation at this point, but just closed by eyes and enjoyed the luxurious soak.

At last, the pedicurist was ready to work on me, trimming, filing, oiling. “Oh my, so this is how the filthy rich live,” I though, as she applied lotion and massaged my feet. I could get used to this.

“You like?” she asked. How did she know?

The best manicure people seem to speak only enough English to get by. And her English was far superior to my non-existent foreign language ability.

Apparently, she was used to non-verbal instructions and customers who use sign language. I pointed to the bright pink polish I had chosen for my nails, the color in my dreams for the past six months.  She nodded.

Quickly and skillfully, she applied the polish, and I was ready for the manicurist’s table. Might as well get the works while I’m here.

The entire process was repeated to my hands, with a few modifications. When finished, I limped to the drying table, taking my time so the wet polish would not get messed up.

At last, I was finished. I rolled down my pants legs, put my shoes back on, and floated out the door.

Every once in a while, I have to kick off my shoes and sneak a peek at my pretty pink toenails, just to be sure they are still there in their rosy glory.

I only wish it was summer so I could wear sandals and show off my toes.

I might splurge and do this again sometime. Now that my feet are in better shape, I could do it myself. But that is for the peasants. Those of us in the temporary social elite prefer to let other do our toes. Let’s just consider it an investment in well-being and mental health.

I just looked and they are still pretty in pink. Everyone deserves an ego trip once in a while.

Copyright 2012 Sheila Moss