If my toe polish chips off one more time… Ok. Here’s the deal. I love getting pedicures but I hate sitting there for the, two some-odd hours, and getting repetitively asked if I want a flower. No, I don’t want a flower. I never want flowers. Or bees. Or owls. Or whatever other fancy design they can come up with using a toothpick. I love how my feet look -so pretty when they are done trimming, pampering and painting; But, the waiting. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It kills me. I bring a book. Magazine. Phone. Fork to stab myself in the eye. So, in an attempt to lengthen the amount of time in between my salon visits… I touch up. Ok, I try. Or rather make a mess of… The beautiful work they’ve done.
This should be like crayons in a coloring book. I never seemed to color outside I the lines there. Ok, maybe I did… But I added shading with my forest greens and rays to my suns shining. Even after a mug, my precision should increase. It doesn’t. I’m more wobbly and I end up knocking over open bottles of hot cha cha pink all over my white carpet.
For the first two weeks of the “making it last” event, I do a fine job of glopping that goo on. I’m a pigment applicator legend in my own mind. The nail brush glides over the already glossy toesies. Easily. Perfectly. But the following two weeks? Oh geez. If I look at it wrong, the enamel chips off. I’m good at many things. Underwater basket weaving. Polka dot dancing. Bench pressing great grandmothers. But this? Im kind of like a manicuring leper. And when I paint over the deranged, half missing hues, I get lumps and the tints run over on my skin. It’s a precious nightmare.
Obviously, the easy solution would be to buck up and get a damn pedicure. Cringing. Pushing away at the thought. Sit at that damn salon? for two hours? You do it. Whining. Stomping my feet. If I could go every six months… You’d hear less complaining and see shiny happy little piggly wigglies.