Unlike some (politicians and ad agency presidents who promise a raise but never deliver) I am a man of my word. So when I say I am committed to trying new things, as I did yesterday and in the past on these very digital pages, I mean it.
Witness the picture above, wherein I am receiving my very first pedicure after living 67 years without one.
The first thing you'll notice is I carefully blocked the pedicurist's face so she would not be subject to any public shaming. I do after all have the world's ugliest and possibly widest feet. Or so I'm told by my daughters, who for years suggested I experience a legitimate pedicure so that my feet would be less..."ewwwwww."
Ms. Muse, slightly more diplomatic, is also not a huge fan of my EEE shoe fillings. And successfully corralled me into doing it as kind of a lark.
At this point, you should know neither of us are into "feet."
We're all adults here, with the possible exception of my buddy Paul, and know that a significant part of the population ARE into feet. Whatever floats your boat shoes, I say. Just as we now know more than half the country are also into watching a man mimic giving fellatio to a microphone.
Get a room. Or a large stadium so tens of thousands of uneducated diaper-wearing Kool Aid drinkers can watch.
I digress. Kicking the Trump punching bag has a become a natural reflex.
Must. Restrain (and re-train). Myself.
I will say I rather enjoyed the careful and detailed attention to my feet, a part of my body that is getting more difficult to reach on account of my bum hip and ridiculously stiff torso that seemingly does not respond to any amount of stretching and yoga. But I suspect my daughters enjoyed the pedicure, albeit vicariously, even more.
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