I admit it: my junk is ugly. My junk is callous-ridden and crusty and overworked and like many of us– smelly. I’ve been alive 37 years. In all my 37 years, I have never had anyone touch my junk in public. Today, all that changed and it will never be the same again. I sat in a room full of people and paid someone to take care of my junk. When I refer to “junk” what I mean is my feet (what did you think I meant). I call ’em junk because they’re ugly and deserve to stay hidden from the world in shoes. Today, after approximately 13,670 days walking around, after never having paid any attention to my feet before in my entire life, with the exception of normal nail trimming, I got a pedicure. I got a manicure too. I got a mani-pedi. I lost my mani-pedi virginity.
The girls have been threatening me with it for years, nagging me about it, questioning why I wouldn’t do it. I don’t know. I guess the simple answer is feet are ugly, feet are smelly, and the idea of someone else being in charge of massaging and grooming my feet makes me feel real weird. Today I ran out of excuses. The girls hijacked the car and made it clear we were going to Dashing Divas with the wife– one of them batted her eyelashes, the other said “pleassseee daddy, pleassseee”. I couldn’t refuse any longer. So I hiked up my man-jeans and with my high-waters in place, I took my place on the wall of shame and put my feet in the tub. I was embarrassed. I was uncomfortable. I was gettin’ my feet done. Yeh, I saw a total metro-sexual across the way with his Rodeo Drive wife. I could tell right away that they do this very frequently. I felt even more out of place. The nail technician knew she had a virgin. She tried to go easy. She cut and clipped and trimmed. She got out more torture tools and scraped, and scuffed, and smoothed. She asked me if it hurt. She asked me if she should slow down. My daughter answered, “He’s nervous, you can hear it in his voice.” And I was. I couldn’t wait for it to be done. “Relax,” they said. Truth is, I don’t know how to relax when my feet are being violated. My hands were next. She moved me over to the hand table and had me soak my hands. I could hear the 5-year-old across the salon telling perfect strangers that dad was getting a pedicure, that it was dad’s first time, that she wondered what color I would paint my nails. The torture tools came out again. Again the technician cut and clipped and trimmed. Then she buffed. My nails were the shiniest freakin’ nails I have ever seen. I was pleased.
In the end, I survived the experience. The man’s mani-pedi wasn’t all that bad. It wasn’t all that good but it wasn’t all that bad. I still feel like a guy. But maybe just maybe, I have a smoother sensitive side. We left and I paid for all four of us. I realized I didn’t know what to tip the technicians. Apparently I WAYYYY overtipped for everyone since it was the first time I had ever done this. My wife’s jaw dropped when she heard how much I had tipped. What did I know. I was a virgin before today. Apparently, it ended up being a happy ending for everyone involved. Dadmissions.