At Least They're Committed

People have been very kind, asking me what life changes I’ll need to make with my new, bionic self. And I’m quick to say, “I’ll have to have pedicures the rest of my life.” They laugh and say, “Oh, it must be rough!” I nod and smile. Uh, yes, it is. Who the eff came up with pedicures in the first place? I must have missed the chick gene on that one, because pedicures are freaking torture. They dig into your cuticles, they cut you to the quick (heh, literally), they whittle at your feet (OK, it’s a nail file), then they take jagged stones and scrape them across your heels and the balls of your feet. I should qualify that my feet are pretty good to begin with, so this all seems unnecessary.

They had NASCAR blaring on the TV screens today . . . in a nail salon. Really. Shouldn’t they be watching reruns of Oprah or Ellen? I mean, for me NASCAR would be OK if it weren’t for the commentators. One actually said, “You might can be takin’ longer pit stops in the first half.”

And, yes, I’m ticklish but as Bugaboo was getting her fingernails done and looked over and I started cracking up it wasn’t because of that, it was because I was in freaking hell and all you can do in such a situation is laugh. So, yes. The worst part about my hip replacement is having to get the damn pedicures.