Recently I engaged the services of a Podiatrist. I’ll spare you the ghastly details but lets just say my issues are minor and mostly cosmetic. The wearing of thongs is de rigueur at my beach and I felt I needed some work done to rock this summer with confidence. We’re talking Havaianas in case there’s any confusion.
The procedure I planned to undertake was very new fangled, high tech and involved the use of a laser. This provoked scientific skepticism from Dadabs. “Have you done your research? Are you sure its not some quack bull dust?” “Relax I’m going to a bona-fide medical establishment”. My (nearly) five year old P2 was aghast “Dont get lasered Mumma. You’ll die!” She then produced a charming illustration of an evil onion being lasered by a pre-school girl with super powers. My seven year old who is getting sassier by the day, merely scoffed. “You’re getting lasered? Who’s going to do it – Luke Skywalker? bawahahahahahaha”. Meanwhile I couldn’t be prouder of her indepth knowledge of Star Wars. Dadabs and I are doing a stellar job.
The fateful day arrived and I entered the Podiatrist’s suite with excitement which demonstrates two things
1) I was really looking forward to ending the scourge of ugly toenails &
2) My life really is that dull.
I was greeted by a big, boofy young man . Brick outhouse would be an apt description. However his cheeky grin and lively sparkling eyes lifted him to crumpet status – if foot crumpet is a thing. I mused that there were worse ways to spend the next thirty minutes to an hour. I was to be proven wrong!
The dude sat me down in a comfy recliner and assured me that my toenails would not melt and that the whole thing would not be very painful. Yet he contradicted himself by handing me a box of tissues – in case I needed to cry or dry my sweaty palms. Huh? He then told me to yell out “hot” if the pain was becoming unbearable. He then tried to reassure me that he always over plays the discomfort factor so that clients won’t be angry with him. Now I was confused but I summoned up my best macho posturing. “I’ve given birth twice without an epidural! I can handle this.” I announced smugly. He did a good job of feigning nonchalance but I detected a faint flicker of alarm in his eyes. Young men hate the topic of child birth, (especially child free men with live in girlfriends) and frankly who can blame them.
We both donned some stylin’ Lady Gaga type protective goggles and he set to work. I felt the laser’s gentle warmth. It was actually quite pleasant. “Piece of cake” I thought. “This is alright” I said.
Then without warning or build up it hit. Seering, burning agony! Oh My God! “Ummmm. That’s hurting a bit now. That’s really hurting” I felt tears build up around my eyes. It was orders of magnitude worse than anything I’d suffered at the hands of a professional waxer.
“You’re doing really well” said the dude.
The last time I heard that line I was in labor and it was blatantly untrue both then and now.
The dude informed my that some of his clients (mostly male) “swear like wharfies” and instructed me to “keep talking to him”.
I was subjected to four more bursts of stinging way more intense than child birth. During this time I was distracted by the dude’s amiable banter. I learned that Team Abulous should be watching Arrow and that The Flash is an under rated super hero. Conversely the dude learned that he really must watch Vikings*.
Despite the dude telling me that there would be no residual pain, I felt like my toes had been bashed with a hammer. I whimpered that I needed a glass of red wine to ease the trauma. The dude gave me his permission to neck the whole bottle – the sooner I got “medicated” the better. He also recommended that I throw out all of my old rank shoes and purchase a new collection. This advice was prefaced with “Your husband’s going to hate me but….”.
My key take aways from this experience were;
- Super sensitive toes and a pathetic limp.
- Although the dude tortured me I can’t help but crushing on him a little. It’s impossible not to like a man who recommends you both down a bottle of red and buy new shoes.
- There is no way in hell a laser is ever going to touch my face. A future spent looking at my own wrinkles is preferable to the pain.
- I am completely put off any type of invasive cosmetic treatment. No lipo or implants for me. I’d rather be imperfect than in agony.
Cosmetic treatments? How far would you go? Would you suffer for your looks?
* That’s my message to the world.