HIgh maintenance Mommy

I was sitting in a restaurant the other day next to a lovely young couple.  At the end of the meal, they had this exchange:

I don't really feel like going home.  Wanna go to a movie?

Sure.  

Seems benign enough, right?  So why did it inspire a fiery blanket of envy to wrap around my entire being?  Really.  I was longing for that conversation the way a castaway longs for a ship on the horizon.

My man and I haven't been able to make an off the cuff plan for a movie since Lucien was born.  I, personally, have seen one movie in the theater since 2010.  It was Captain America.  Sorta dropped the ball on choosing wisely on that one.  If I would have known it was going to be the only movie I saw that year, I would have given it more thought.

This got me thinking about all of the little things that I took for granted, before time for myself became some sort of a myth.  Some distant memory.  Something I'm sure I had at some point, but have forgotten completely.  Movies.  Pedicures.  Hair appointments.  Listlessly lingering in coffee shops.  Everything takes on a new meaning now.  I guess- to be fair- I have to admit that I have become really high maintenance.  Well, as high maintenance as someone who has worked in the service industry for 20 years can be, anyway.

I got a pedicure before I left for my sister's wedding cruise.  This trivial ritual that I used to partake in at least twice a month, has now become an event that I have time for about every 3 months.  Naturally, it is not as trivial to me as it used to be.  All of a sudden, this pedicure I'm getting better be the best damn pedicure around.   I've noticed there is a lot more pressure for every single thing I do -that doesn't involve parenting- to be perfect.  Well, maybe not perfect.  But good.  Really good.

This particular day, my perfect pedicure was not in the cards.  There was trouble brewing at the salon.  I should have sensed it when I walked in the door.  Actually I did sense it when I walked in the door, but I was too excited about my impending foot rub to pay it any mind.  The air was thick with acetone and tension.  The receptionist seemed pissed.  So did the woman preparing my foot bath.  She was angrily filling the tub, splashing water all over the place.

Put your feet here!

Normally I don't like to be yelled at, but frankly, these days I will take any manner of abuse if there is a foot rub at the end of it.  So I grab my In Style magazine and my purse, take my shoes off- and take my place on the pedi-throne.

Holy mother of scalding hot water.  This foot bath is crazy hot.  I glance down to make sure it's not boiling, and that my skin is still in tact.  Check, check.  I take a deep breath, relax, and try to acclimate myself to the temperature of the ridiculously hot water.

The secret to getting a good pedicure is this;  at no time can you come across as a delicate flower.  It ruins everything.  They won't give you a good massage, they won't scrub the shit out of your callouses, they won't use the cuticle cutters-  they will be too afraid to hurt you.  So I put my game face on, sit back, and begin to catch up on Angelina and Brad.

My mantra.

At that moment, the pissed off receptionist that has been fiddling with the stereo since I walked in finally gets it to work. I can't believe I forgot my whistle and glow in the dark choker at home.  I've been transported to the Euro-disco.  Seriously.  Have you ever been to a disco, in any city in Europe?  Then you know what they are playing here.  This shit is loud, without rhythm, and I'm pretty sure a vuvuzela is the main instrument.

On cue, my pedicurist lets out an audible sigh, and starts scrubbing my feet with a fierce vengeance.  This music is apparently the root of the tension.  She mumbles under her breath in Spanish.  Perra estupidia.  I've worked in kitchens long enough to know what that means.  My serenity is vanishing by the minute.  My feet are hot as fuck, this woman is actually hurting me, and this music is making me want to stab myself in the face.  And now, of course, they start to argue.  But I have no idea what they are saying.  The DJ is speaking what I think is Vietnamese.  My pedicurist is speaking Spanish, so I'm getting bits and pieces here and there.  It's not good.  The music, the yelling,  and the pain are making this the pedicure from hell.  From hell.

I give up on getting an even half-decent pedicure, and speak.

Could you please stop yelling?  I'm trying to relax.  I haven't had a pedicure in 3 months!  Please, please, please- can you just be quiet?  Jesus, and this music is fucking ridiculous.  I'm on her side.  It sucks.  Don't you have anything with a flute, or running water or something?  A babbling brook?  New age Spanish guitar?  ANYTHING BUT THIS??

My pedicurist's grimace breaks into a very small, almost undetectable smile.  The DJ turns off the music.

All of a sudden, this pedicure I'm getting, becomes the best damn pedicure around.   

Thank God, because it's gonna have to last me three months.