Pedicure Power
by Lisa B. Samalonis |
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You may need some help to put your best foot forward when you can't reach your
toes, but the effort won't go unnoticed in the delivery room.
Nothing has ever melted my stress away as instantly as the spa pedicure I got
during my second pregnancy. It's a memory I cherish and an experience I try to
repeat as often as possible now as a wife, mother of two and all around go-to
girl.
When I first contemplated splurging on the treatment, some of my friends said I
was insane to plunk down $50-plus, but another pal sealed the deal when she said
that at the spa the pedicures were "better than sex." At eight and a half months
along, I dialed the salon.
On appointment day, I waddled in with my sweater stretched across my swollen
belly, chipped red polish and toenails long enough to spear Moby Dick. I hadn't
been able to reach those depths for some time. "You won't go into
l-a-b-o-r in the chair, will you?" the receptionist asked, turning a few styled
heads. "Not if I'm lucky," I said.
In the nail room, I leaned back into a mushy massage chair, closed my eyes,
immersed my feet in frothy liquid, and plugged in headphones that filled my mind
with instrumental music. For the time it took to slough off the calluses and make
my feet feel oh-so fine, I traveled to another place.
Too soon, it was back to reality. You see, I was not one of those fresh-faced
pregnant women you sometimes meet. I gained more weight than was recommended even
though
I retched for weeks. (Truth be told, chocolate doughnuts were my mental salvation
and my physical downfall.) To make matters worse, my husband was not one to make
passing comments about the beauty of the female body creating life.
Several days postpedicure, labor snuck up on me. We reached the hospital parking
lot at 3:45 a.m. I pinched back contractions, suppressed a hormone-induced tear
or two and told my hubby to hurry the hell up as he collected the camera and
tripod from the trunk. It was not a shining moment for me, but peeking from my
sandals, my crimson toenails glimmered in the moonlight.
The orderly who wheeled me up to the maternity ward noted (between his
instructions: "Absolutely do not push") how plucky my pedicured tootsies looked.
We clocked just under 10 minutes from our entrance to the arrival of my son. My
doctor didn't make it in time. Instead, she delivered cesarean twins, while
another OB nixed my epidural (no time), did an episiotomy and caught my son,
William, on his entry into this world.
My doctor arrived for the "sew up." With the last stitch in place, she turned to
leave. But before her exit, she tapped my foot and said, "Nice job, Mom Š and
nice toenails."
Lisa B. Samalonis is a writer in New Jersey, where she continues to wow people with her terrific toes.
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