In recognition of my 30th* birthday, this afternoon/evening my wife took me to three places: A nice restaurant, an indoor go-kart racetrack, and to the local nail salon.
I know … I know—what sort of guy goes to the local nail salon? Well, me. Not often, mind you. Once, twice a year, always as a tag-along. But I’ve gotta be honest here: Few things in life feel as friggin’ good as a pedicure. To begin with, my feat suck. They always hurt, they’re covered in dead, dry skin and my nails get cut, oh, four times per year. They’re big (size 13), fugly and unruly.
The pedicure, however, changes everything. For 30 minutes or so, your feet are gently rubbed, scrubbed, soaked, massaged. It’s absolute bliss, and I don’t care if every sports-loving, backward cap-wearing, tobacco-chewing man’s man thinks I’m a wuss—I love the pedicure.
Hell, for that matter, I love watching my daughter do ballet; love dancing around the kitchen with her as some Miley Cyrus song blares from the radio; love playing dolls with her and coming home from the store with a dress for her. Even though my professional life has been dedicated to the machismo world of sports, I’ve never really bought into the “A real man …” line of thinking.
* I’m 37. Damn.
