I’ve developed a thing for feet. Not a fetish as such. I don’t get woozy when I see them. I don’t want to dip them in a chocolate fondue fountain or stroke them while crooning “My precious, my precious”.
My thing for feet is more of a concern, a personal interest in their health and well-being. Just like some people spend their pay packet on products fit for cleaning, cleansing, toning and abolishing acne from every square centimetre of their sunny disposition, I finance the world of feet care. Nail clippers, moisturising creams, pumice stones and buffer pads. I have one whole bathroom draw dedicated to my feet maintenance, not to mention a collection of nail polishes which could revival the OPI headquarters.
Who knew there were so many shades of red?
However, upon graduating from university, accepting my first real job and suddenly coming into more monthly pocket money than I was accustomed, my fascination for foot care took toe treatment to a luxurious new level.
I discovered that you don’t have to soak your feet in your own bath for half an hour before bursting a blood vessel trying to pumice your foot calluses into obscurity. You don’t have to put your back out trying to clip, file and buff each individual toe, nor carefully apply perfect layers of Cherry Red nail lacquer only to kick your toes on your way to the kitchen. In fact, the tedious task of foot care can all be left up to the trained professionals at your local nail salon.
How could I have not known about this before? How could I have gone 22 years without experiencing the sheer, blissful indulgence of having someone tending to my toenails with so much professional passion?
Indeed, the best sins are those which feel disgustingly glamorous. What could be more indulgent than paying a woman to rub my feet with her own two hands as she sees to my every crack, callous and cuticle?
Not having to do anything other than sit their like a lazy lard with a foot fetish. Sure, I can choose to throw my nail technician the occasional bone by chatting about the weather or the differences between Fairy Floss and Cotton Candy pink. But it seems nail salon employees are about as eager to speak to you as you are to put your darling, dainty toes through a meat mincer. And so it is that we both keep to ourselves, them washing my feet like I am Jesus and me continuing to flip through my trashy magazine with all the airs and graces of the salacious celebrities I’m reading about.
Okay, so putting out the pennies for a pedicure does seems to assume the type of caste system long outlawed by Western politics, but I figure the concern I hold for my 10 little piglets is keeping at least five bunion beauticians in business, so it's not as sinful as it seems.
However, there is a small problem with becoming familiar with this kind of treatment. When you lose your job and become suddenly poverty stricken, any unnecessary expenses must be immediately exterminated. And that means no more salon spas, no more deep tissue toe massages, no more fantasy feet. When the times are tough, one must become her own bunion beautician.
Returning to the days of scrubbing my own feet flat and rubbing moisturiser into my own calluses and holding a steady hand as I carefully paint each individual toe is only a further assurity of my demise. I'm sure it's how celebrities feel when their careers take a plunge into obscurity and nobody offers them free Chanel to wear to the markets.
While I must come to terms with this sad culling of pleasure from my life, with it comes the opportunity to re-connect with my footsies. After all, once this tumult of bad luck is over and I finally get my foot in the door, it's them I'll have to thank.
Ciao for now. xo
(Image Credit: So About What I Said)
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