Not unlike most girls, I don’t love to go around with my piggies looking like troll feet, but sometimes due to circumstances beyond my control- it just seems to happen that way. I love to the process of picking out a color and I take great pride and find it intensely therapeutic to paint my nails. I get a gold star for staying within the confines of a nail, but damned if fate and bodily inflexibility has made it hard for me to reach my toes. Cruel joke, nature- girls in wheelchairs deserve pretty feet, too! [Tangent: Oh no, with that sentence, I have really opened up the floodgates for mass blog interest from the niche wheelchair/foot fetish community. Oh well. Frankly, it wouldn’t be the first time.]
With this limitation, I’m left with two alternatives: 1. Awkwardly ask someone I know to address the situation or 2. Go to a professional. As I’ve gotten older, and the chore’s magic has worn off a bit with my nearest and dearest, I have just started to get pedicures, which would be all find and dandy if they weren’t a horrifying experience for me.
Yes, you read that correctly. I don’t love going to do something that is inherently pampering. In fact, it’s sometimes as anxiety-inducing as a pap smear. I’m roughly 4’10 and lack the stability of an oak tree and those giant massage chairs seem to swallow me alive. It always takes several towels propped around me to keep me grounded and I usually have to forgo the massage capabilities altogether. [Tangent: Due to my stature, the shiatsu neck feature just seems to sucker punch me in the back of my head repeatedly. Whereas the back massage is much too forceful for my frame and moves my entire body. If you even dare to activate the butt massager, it looks like I am riding on a bull in some bar where mechanical bull riding is an acceptable entertainment form. It makes it difficult for me to even keep my feet stationary for them to be de-trollified!] This is all while the horrified, yet well meaning nail tech, stares at me as if I am a robot that is short-circuiting. In their broken English, I generally hear the phrase, “You okay?” once every two minutes. It’s a hot mess.
For this reason, I have to take someone who I trust will get me safely into the chair and be on Kimmie-watch during their own session. You know…in case I crumple over to one side or slide down in the chair or to placate the pedicurist and reassure them that they are not hurting me and not breaking me, even though I am doing that on my own. Seriously, guys, I am the worst. Why do you hang out with me? The last couple times, I have gone with my friend and get-me-out-of-bed-five-days-a-week attendant, Kate. She thought maybe we should try a children’s chair, because let’s face it- I am built more like an outhouse than a brickhouse. Although I knew this was a winning solution, I was fully prepared to look insane.
When I asked to sit in it, I could tell the sweet workers were confused, but I told them it would just work better, and it did!! Sitting in a chair that was bubblegum pink and in the shape of a non-trademarked Hello Kitty, [Tangent: Bobo Kitty.] I felt secure. [Tangent: It basically looks just like the fake Hello Kitty from Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt.]
Perhaps it didn’t help the situation of not feeling like a complete freak when I asked the sweet staff there to take a photo of me sitting in it. I seriously would not have faulted them if they offered me a juice box and a pat on the head at this point. It’s like I was asking for it.
At least now, I have a back up plan for getting a peaceful pedicure. Perhaps your idea of a winning pedicure looks luxe and tranquil, but mine is pink and smiling and in itty bitty kitty sized. To each his own. I mean despite my lack of makeup, look how stoked I look!