The Ladies who Pedi.

I know this will be a huge shock, but most of my life I’ve had more guy friends than girl friends. Many things about girls bug me. I will be honest and say that I shake my head in great confusion over the antics of my gender far too often. (someone explain to me about $40 lipsticks please? And also dogs in purses? And girls gone wild – why do they go wild? What makes them go wild like this? Does this wild-going seem like a good idea to anybody? Any girl body, I mean? But I digress) I often shake my head at guy stuff too (tell me again why it makes sense to call your friend a fag? And pee on their shoe?) but the stupid things that guys do are both funny (yes they are) and also don’t reflect poorly on me beyond my choosing to be around them when they’re doing it.

And as a result I’ve always had more guy friends than girl friends. I’m kind of like the Jane Goodall of dudes. I speak their language and they accept me as one of their own. (and all sorts of female readers are adding another item to their personal “why Femtastic is lucky to have had a boyfriend ever in her whole life!!” list)

But there are a few exceptions to this list, and top-most of those exceptions are two of my oldest friends, my three amigas, my fellow musketeers, my… another thing that’s famous and three… The Queen and Risky. I’ve known Risky since I was too young to remember what age I was when I met her (so like 5 or 6?) and though I’ve known The Queen for less actual year-times we’ve made up for lost time like gangbusters and I find it kind of amazing that I ever didn’t know her either.

I get to see the Queen all the time (I get to. She has to) but Risky lives a good 90 minutes away, so the three of us try to get together for some serious girl bonding time every few months at the least; we call these our Ladies Days. They are an estrogen feeding frenzy of epic proportions where the uterus of strangers around us are enflamed with envy and we cause entire shopping malls of women to synch their periods up instantaneously. It’s days of shopping or ladies’ lunches or whatnot. In April?

It was Femtastic’s first pedicure.

It’s true! Just last month I allowed someone, NAY, PAID someone, to put their hands on my feet. MY FEET! And not only did I not kill them with the smells and other noxious things that are associated with feet I also did not kill them with spontaneous face kicking in response to them doing their feet touching. Which was actually my chief concern. The idea of letting someone touch my feet just kind of wigged me out. Also I was afraid that my feet would be some new benchmark of serious grossness, or that I’d have to pretend I didn’t see the poor pedicurist squelching her gag reflex.

But no! Not only did she tell me that my feet were really pretty good (and nothing like the troll she had the day before) but I also TOTALLY LOVED the feet touching!

Important to note: I’ve always been hugely enamored of foot massages. HUUUUGELY. I tried and tried to make my one exmanfriend understand that he could skip foreplay and even sex and all the pesky worrying about whether I got my special reward in bed if only he would rub my feet, but this is something he never, ever got. But such foot massages have generally been given by people with whom I’ve already crossed familiarity boundaries. Not strangers in fashion-colored aprons with 80’s rock playing in the background who’s names I only know because it’s embroidered on their front. I could make an analogy of how strange a boundary cross that seemed like it would be, but they’d all give you the heebie-jeebies. Let’s just say I thought it would be weird.

And it was totally not weird.

Also when we were done we had the prettiest toes ever! SO PRETTY! Who knew toes could even BE pretty? Not me, I had no idea, and yet there I was. Admiring my very own painted piggies. There was Chinese food and book shopping and coffee (for people who drink coffee, and coffee mocking for those of us who don’t.) and it was a very excellent day.

And now I love me the pedicure. I would have another please.