My sister, left; me, right.
My sister took me to get my first pedicure today.
It was a little weird. I didn't really know what to do or where to look as this stranger crouched down, poking away at my nails and halfheartedly massaging my legs. Then came the callus shaver, which was disgusting and therefore my favorite part. My heels were horrible and gave up a sizable pyramid of what looked like mozzarella cheese. Jill actually gasped and then cracked up when she glanced over and saw the flurry of dead skin that was coming from my feet. I guess I needed it.
My sister says pedicures make her feel pampered, like a queen, but all the impersonal poking and snipping and scrubbing made me feel more like I was at the dentist than anything else.
That's fine, though. Now my feet are soft and shapely and my toes look like cute little jewels, and I got to keep the hilariously flimsy flip flops they gave me to wear in the drying machine. The pedicure is truly the gift that keeps on giving.