Death by Pedicure

     Let me preface this story by saying that I am an extremely passive person. If you wrong me in any way there is a great possibility that I will pretend it never happened just to avoid conflict. I especially never complain when someone is doing me a service, such as taking my order at a restaurant. If I was allergic to peanuts and my waitress accidentally gave me a peanut butter sandwich (instead of the chicken tenders I would most definitely be ordering in this hypothetical scenario) then I would probably get out my Epi-pen, eat the sandwich, stab myself in the leg, and then take a trip to the hospital because I wouldn't want to tell her she messed up my order. In short, I would die of discomfort before I complained that someone has wronged me.
     That being said, you can imagine what I've let slide under the rug when going to get a pedicure. Normally, whenever I go there's some form of painful incident. Whether it's pain from the "massage" as they so cutely misnamed the beating I received from a woman a third of my size; or pain from a burly man trying to get rid of the hangnail in my not-so-big toe. Either way, something always goes wrong and I always end up silently writhing in pain.
     Although these instances occur almost every time I go, I still go back with the same logic that, "It can't be worse than the last time." And every time another small Asian woman with a personal vendetta against me proves me wrong. But the last time I went may indeed be the last time. I've named it The Great Nail Clipper Incident of 2015. It started off as any normal day. I had just woken up from a 3 hour nap, after eating a helping of chicken nuggets, when my stepmother asked me if I wanted to go with her to get her nails done. I must have been still hazy from the nap because I agreed to go. We arrived at a nail salon which, for legal purposes, I will refrain from naming. I should've known I was in for it by the looks of those who were leaving. I think one lady even mouthed, "Get out now. Save your toes." But my feet were looking crusty so I said,"Screw it! Show me the nail polish!" I took a seat in the next available chair and waited for the inevitable to happen. Sure enough, the person who worked at this chair was a 70 year old bald man. Not only am I uncomfortable with men touching my feet, but I also would not trust this man to see a billboard if it was right in front of him let alone my tiny toes. 
     In an effort to relax I turn on my massage chair which felt like I was being stoned to death from behind, but I didn't know how to turn it off so I just went with it. So as this gentleman was so graciously touching my crusty feet and trying to make them less vomit-inducing, I was trying to relax in the massage chair from hell. As the pedicure moved forward he takes out the small trimming tool to cut my cuticles. I'm thinking, "Yes! Please fix these sad excuses for toes." Just as I'm praising God for this pedicure, I feel a sharp pain on my big toe. I look down to see that he has plucked a chunk of skin from my foot. I, being me, pretended not to notice and just let him due his thing, In an effort to stop the bleeding, so he could actually paint my toenails, he poured some blue liquid into my cut, which I'm sure was not safe to be travelling in my bloodstream. Aside from the blood toxicity, it also burned like a thousand fires. I, again, pretended like every thing was fine and continued to silently writhe in pain. Some time went by and the pain subsided so I began to relax again. He finished taming one of my feet and had moved on to the next one. He pulled out the same tool of mass toe destruction, and, again, managed to pull off another chunk of my skin, but on the other foot. Now familiar with the pain I did not even have to look up to see what had happened. Without moving a muscle, I waited for the burning sensation of the mysterious blue liquid. Sure enough, a thousand fires again began to scorch my skin. It was at this point that I should have said something, but now I was determined to just get through this experience without crying.
     I held my ground with the grace and dignity of anyone being personally victimized with heavy artillery; meaning, every muscle was clenched and a tear started to form in my right eye. As he put the clippers away I began to think "Well at least the worst is over now." *face palm* I said the thing you should never say! There's always something worse whenever those words are uttered. Even if I think the pain is over, there will always be another Asian ready to inflict worse. As he is painting my nails, each nail polish-covered brush stroke onto one of the afflicted toes is causing a burning sensation that I can only equate with being lit on fire. But, alas, the pain ended and I still tipped him because scrubbing feet all day must suck and he seemed like a nice enough fellow, even though he caused me so much pain. But, moral of the story is.....paint your own toenails. Unless your significant other has a foot fetish no one looks at feet that closely anyway. 

                                                       
                                                    Until next time.
                                                                      Research what that blue liquid is and go eat a pineapple