If Brad had any complaints about me (which, obviously, he doesn't), it would probably be about how I am constantly fussing about my looks. I am definitely what you would call a high-maintenance girl. Although I abhor the term "trophy wife," I've discovered that, if the Jimmy Choo shoe fits, then I must bear that dazzling high-heeled burden.
I tend to lean to the complementary look of vintage fashion. Sporting a stylish multi-colored sleeveless number accessorized with a cute hoodie the other day, my family marveled at its timelessness. "How long have you had that shirt," Sydney asked with admiration. Savannah began to trace the impressive twenty-year history of this particular article of clothing as it saw the beginning years of my marriage, witnessed the Mosiman membership increase by two, made pioneer journeys across some thirty or more states,traversed oceans, rivers, and lakes as well as ascending great heights upon aircraft and plunging to great depths in creepy, claustrophobic caverns. And all the while, making me look like I'd just walked off a magazine cover. "What magazine," Sydney laughed, "Flea Market Fashion?" "More likely, Thrift Store Styles," corrected Savannah before chronicling the rest of my closet.
Recognizing me as a trend-setter, my friend Sue, an amazing Mary Kay consultant (http://www.marykay.com/saslocum), offered to visit my home to share her line of foot treatments to tame my tender tootsies. My daughters were naturally thrilled. "No one is touching my feet," Savannah growled callously upon hearing the news. I immediately put in a call to one of the coolest people I know and bribed her over with chocolate raspberry pie. With Meg on my couch, I knew my girls would be both gracious and civil. We were now ready to experience what I cutely called "foot facials." "That's gross," said Sydney, "It sounds like someone is going to give our faces a facial using their feet."
The first obstacle we encountered was the completion of our client profile cards. "T-zone," Sydney frowned, considering the possible "trouble" areas on her face, "Are there any other letter options?" Given the choices of skin tone, I systematically eliminated ivory, beige and ebony. I really wanted to check "fawn" but my inherent honestly wouldn't allow it. "Is albino available?" I inquired. Meg and I enjoyed the politically-correct terminology of the form when we encountered the term, "expression lines." Sue finally managed to wrestle our reluctant feet into little bath tubs or, as my little dachshund perceived them, giant doggie water bowls. Step one of the foot transformation process was the application of a gummy-type water-resistant gel. The water in our tubs responded to the re-entry of our feet like the Red Sea responded to Moses' raised arms while the Israelites raced through. Meanwhile, we all held our hands up like surgeons while Sue patiently wiped them. The next application was a gritty cream which exfoliated our rough heels followed by a satiny smoothing cream. Rising from this baptismal bath, my feet were transformed into those of a movie star. "Which movie star," Savannah said, "Fred Flintstone?"
Even though Savannah initially raised a bit of a stink about the experience, our feet are definitely no worse for wear. Meg organized a mini-riot upon her discovery that May Kay had discontinued the distribution of a tint-colored lip balm but was eventually calmed after she purchased her favorite fragrance, "Thinking of you." Sydney bustled off to a bon-fire where her feet shone brighter than the flames. Invigorated by her foot facial, Savannah discovered she had a bit more bounce in her step during her seven mile run with her friend Brittany the next morning. As for me, I'm off to a second-hand store to see if I can score some Jimmy Choo shoes to showcase my fancy new feet.
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