oh, don't be so callous

being that i have no boyfriend currently, there's really only one reason to shave my legs:

to get a pedicure.

by turns, there's really only one reason to get a pedicure.

yoga class.

sad, but true.

of course, now that summer has let down her Sun-In kissed hair and all of the girlies have started slipping into their new strappy sandals, there is more of a reason, but throughout winter, i really only keep my feet well-groomed because i have respect for my fellow yoginis. i don't want to break their concentration with the sight of my appalling digits.

so, on saturday morning, i finally shaved my legs after...oh...i'm not quite sure how long - april 8th wedding weekend? yup. i abhor shaving, but i did it b/c i knew i wanted to get a pedicure that afternoon. knowing that the nice pedicure lady would already have to suffer the unpleasantness of hacking away at the callouses i've been developing on my feet since i was 5, i figured the least i could do for her was to plow thru the winter harvest. surprisingly, a hatchet was not needed. just a regular old gillette and some bettijo shaving oil (this stuff rocks! you'll never use shaving cream again. it's kinda pricey, but it lasts forever. maybe i'm not such a good barometer as i still have the rusty can of Barbasol foam from college, but i have a feelng that even regular shavers would find it goes a long way. ya only need a smidge, and it stays on in the shower and keeps on moisturizing even after you towel off.)

not much use, i'm afraid. she still looked upon my feet with dismay (or was it digust? so hard to tell.) i found myself wishing i could burrow into the folds of the black pleather chair.

i apologized profusely.

i'm soooo sorry...i have really bad callouses.

sheesh! i didn't kill anyone. i have scaly feet for chrissakes! i pay her to do this! why do i care so much what she thinks of my feet?

training. years and years of training.

one of my mother's enduring legacies along with her resounding laughter and good hair - is her scary-ass calloused feet. i got 'em. legendary in my family, they have been the butt of countless jokes and jabs, and i have received a pedicure kit every Christmas as far back as i can remember. no use. i have never had soft, supple feet, and i doubt i ever will. the most i can hope for is a pair of hoofers that don't resemble dinosaur hide.

so, i get pedicures. (i could do it myself, but i don't have the strength to perform the archaeological dig that's required.) the crappy thing is that usually don't even enjoy getting them b/c i'm so self-concscious and have learned to be so ashamed of them. now, this may sound unreasonable to you, but my fears are not without foundation. i once went to get a pedicure, the lady slipped off my socks, and blurted:

oh my GAAAWWWWWD!

this followed by a flurry of korean expletives. none, i imagine, complimentary.

poor little footsies.

i'm horribly embarassed of my feet (okay, i hate them), and yet, when i sit next to most women in the nail place, i see that theirs aren't so great either. they've got corns, bunyons, feet that look more like arthritic claws than feet...i even met a woman on saturday who has no bones in her little toes! (she had them removed so she can wear pointy shoes more comfortably...that's a whole other post.) but there they are anyway, proudly putting them out there to be prettied and polished. just cuz something isn't perfectly pretty, doesn't mean it doesn't deserve attention, does it?

when i was little i used to bemoan the size and shape of my nose. i felt it was too big, too angular, too non-sandra-dee-pug. my mom used to say,

ah, yes...but it works. it does it's job. you can smell that gardenia can't you?

MOTHerrrrrrrrr. the little girl moaned as she rolled her eyes.

hardly comforting to a girl who longed for a nose that matched the demure dimensions of her madame alexander dolls. she was, of course, right. it worked. thank heavens i didn't have parents that would have encouraged me to alter it as i have now come to see my nose as noble as opposed to too much. it announces, it does not whisper. and, it smells...sniff, sniff...so...good. (can a little button nose fully experience the heady perfume of a gardenia? i could fit an entire bouquet into my commodious nostrils.)

i'm not totally sure where i'm going with this post. i'm rambling. but i think it has something to do with actively loving the less pretty parts of ourselves. i'm not saying it's easy. puhleez. i know that. it takes practice, and practice, no matter what "they" say does not make perfect. practice makes things less...er...imperfect.

what does that mean? for me, it means massaging moisturizing cream into my feet before i go to bed, thanking them for working so well, taking me where i want to go, dancing wildly for hours in hot pink not-so-comfy sequinned shoes. it means cradling my impudent little belly, feeding it foods that satiate it but don't upset it, loving it for its fullness and its capacity for enjoyment. it means catching the reflection of my profile in a window and thinking,"cheerio! what a lovely aristocratic proboscis resides upon her face!" it means not being afraid of giving the darker parts of me attention - just because they're unruly little children, does not mean they don't deserve it. it means loving my body in spite of, scratch that, because of it's being human.