Relaxing: Nailed it!

 When I think of the word "pampering," I tend to think about diapering a baby's bottom rather than the seemingly-indulgent self-care activities of getting your nails done, hair styled or going to the dentist.  Don't get me wrong. Who doesn't prefer pretty, painted nails to plain ones ripped down to the stub? Healthy white teeth are definitely superior to cavity-ridden yellow teeth (or no teeth at all). And bangs cut evenly across the front are a rare but wonderful treat.

Besides being lazy, ignorant, and negligent in the area of self-care, I believe that my surfacing anxiety issues may also play a role here.  "Surfacing?" Brad snorted, "Your anxieties have surfaced, breached, and are now currently performing back-flips all over the Pacific." Ignore him.

I thought I had just good ol', plain ol' claustrophobia but it turns out I have good ol', plain ol' claustrophobia-squared. It took me years to self-diagnose myself but after hundreds of times shaking, shivering, and sobbing in the dental chair, I realized that I didn't suffer from dentalphobia because #1, I outweighed my dentist by some sixty pounds and #2, I have a  a surprisingly high-tolerance for pain (ie two natural child births, I pierce my own ears usually once a year, and  #3, I recently lopped off a back protuberance with a Ginsu knife. What it was, I realized, with my strong background of making unwarranted clinical diagnosises, was haptephobia; a fear of others invading my personal space. This particular affliction makes it difficult to get my nails done, my hair cut, and my teeth cleaned.

So there I was, getting my nails done in San Diego...

Look, I like having pretty toes. I just don't like having someone touch me to get pretty toes. But it's not like I could actually reach them myself...

So there I was, getting my nails done in San Diego...

...when I realized, once again, how wrong I could be.

Sydney later compared it to "Gulliver's Travels" (and let's just say that I wasn't the Lilliputian), while I thought the experience could best be compared to a NASCAR pit crew changing tires. All of the angst-ridden decisions that paralyze me hundreds of times over the course of a single day were swept away. Delving into the barrel of nail color sample choices, I was told briskly that I would "like THIS one." I was then man-handled by a woman who was, at best, five feet tall, and she wrestled me into a high-tech astronaut chair. A massage remote was thrust into my hand and then snatched back when I looked puzzled. Then..."Ohhhhhh...." A laminated menu was then offered to me to select the services that I wanted.  I lamented. "Maybe the heel scrub?" I was instead given ALL the options. I was exfoliated, smeared with mint gel, massaged with hot rocks..."Your legs are so white," Sydney observed. "I know, right?" I replied, "I had thought I was tan...turns out I was just dirty." My nail team tittered.

I'm not kidding about "the team," by the way. Two people tackled my toes while two more clipped my cuticles. I felt like the Cowardly Lion as he was petted, pedicured, and pampered during his visit to The Emerald City. Meanwhile, Sydney, much more relaxed than me, suddenly squeaked. The team was, of course, concerned. Inspecting her big toe, they conducted a thorough history and mapped out a plan to pluck the foreign object out of her foot. As an impromptu operation occurred next to me, my new nails were being thrust into a tiny metal garage to set the polish. Every time I asked a question or expressed uncertainty or doubt, I was told to "Relax." Oftentimes, this imperative would be followed by firmly thrusting me back into my astronaut chair.

So while Androcles was pulling the thorn from the lion's paw, ANOTHER technician approached to apply the marbleized effect to my nails.  "I didn't know this was going to be so complicated," I protested, "I didn't mean for you to go to so much trouble..." "REE-lax," I was told and pushed back into my astronaut's chair (again). The nail artist meticulously placed pin-prick-sized dots of color on the white landscape of my fingers before using a wet brush to swirl the paint--my brain tried to make sense of this. Pointillism like Seurat? Pixilation like...Pixar? "REE-lax," they told me. I should write a thank you note later, I fretted. Would flowers be too much? Should I make a pie? "REE-lax."

No offense but staying with The Wizard of Oz theme and only because it TOTALLY captures their level of enthusiasm,  Sydney and I were escorted to the door and sent off on our next great adventure with wild waves and shouts of good-bye like the Munchkins wishing Dorothy well.  I know some of you are skeptical. Some of you are certain that I was the victim of felonious finger-nailing.  Go ahead. Put a figure in your head. Manicure. Pedicure. Hand massage. Foot and leg message. Hot rocks. Tingly mint gel leg mask. Sandy stuff. Not to mention Sydney's impromptu surgery. Go ahead. All right...I'm going to tell you. You won't believe it. Really.

Fifty bucks. That's approximately two buckets of fried chicken. Chicken-schicken. The next time I visit San Diego, I will summon the courage necessary to re-visit this salon because I like being told to "REE-lax."