I'm not what I would call vain. Especially. Or maybe I am, but no more so than before I had kids. Obviously, I've let some things slide. My size 4s are in the rear view mirror, as are perfectly retouched highlights. Make up? Oh, that stuff I put on before going out to dinner with grown ups. Or to the OB appointment. Blow dryer? Yeah, I own it, but it smells like fire when I turn it on, so I never get a total 'do.
But things have reached rock bottom. And tonight I draw the line. My pedicure is an abomination. The paint is all peely and chipped. The cuticles are dry and flaky. My heels? I could probably walk on hot coals these days. Bad, bad news.
I don't know what happened. Back when time was mine, dinner did not have the prefix Mac-, and the only thing that woke me on the weekends was lunch, my pedicure would NEVER have gotten this bad. I would have a pro do it on my lunch breaks, or I would do it during a football game on the weekend.
I used to do so many things, back when I had time. M and I would buy books about walks to take in our region. When we lived in Baltimore, we would go to Amish Country, or to Washington, or to Annapolis. We tried new restaurants. When we lived in Toronto, we took Maddie to the parks, go apple picking in the fall, go antique-ing, try new restaurants. And way, way, back, in Evanston, we'd go to football games, long campus walks, and try new restaurants.
A new franchise of Chic-Fil-A does not count as a new restaurant, the kids whine after one lap around the cul de sac, and I can't think of my last day trip adventure (that didn't involve a zoo, or a themed musical number, or a kids' museum). What the hell happened?
My toes are just a symptom of the invasive and corrosive nature of parenting. My time, gnawed and nibbled upon, is a fraction of what it once was. My thought process, once linear and coherent, now rambles and zig zags depending on who is demanding what loudly in to which ear. I move to abolish the phrase "can I?" from my children's lexicon. My ability to recall names, dates, events--poof. Gone. I need a Garmin Navigator for my own brain.
Is my time filled with the wonder and charm of childhood? Sadly, no. Surely, there are adorable moments. And I hold on to those like Kate Winslet to a floatie. Those moments sustain us, because the bulk of the time is filled with "don't touch your brother." "Keep your hands to yourself." "Don't push your brother" and then, at full volume "I TOLD YOU TO KEEP YOUR HANDS TO YOURSELF!!!!!!!" And then they cry. Like it's my fault! I asked nicely. Three times. And then, then they look at me with those giant Puss-N-Boots eyes, one giant tear streaming down their cheeks, and say, "you don't have to yell, Mommy."
Crap. I just can't win.
It's not that a perfect pedicure would fix this. In fact, no one ever even sees my toes because all I ever do is shuttle the kids around in the car. BUT, just the IDEA of a pedicure matters at this juncture. The idea of having the time to carefully tend to myself seems like a bigger luxury than it actually is. (Let's be honest, the cardboard diet still hasn't flattened my stomach enough to let me see my own toes, so I could ignore them). But, the idea of warm water, soaking feet, scented lotions. Ahh.
I could be doing that right now. But instead, I am going to spell check this, and then go up to bed. Luxury Smuxury.
