I get my nails done only when an occasion demands it, and a destination wedding in the tropics was telling me I had to. Because I hate to argue with the tropics, I grabbed the first kid-free opportunity I had and headed straight to BK Nails.
The massage chair is actually my favorite part of the experience. I am a fan of “kneading fingers” but am also partial to the “swedish massage” setting–even though this tends to annoy the ladies who are carefully trying to turn my fat-Saxon hands into lady fingers. This is not easy to do. My husband has shared with me that I have tragic farmer hands, since they sort of look like they were stuck in a combine at some point. His observation is way too funny to be hurtful and completely accurate. My fingers are noticeably bent and lacking symmetry. My cuticles are unruly. I avoid them. Good thing the wizards at BK know how to pretty them up. I know they covertly talk about my unfortunate hands in their native tongue but I can also feel their satisfaction when the acrylic magic is applied and my wayward hands become presentable…almost attractive.
My toes are not noteworthy, but, my ankles are sad and thick. They really are. I have grown fond of their sturdiness and have learned to embrace them as hard-working weight-bearing entities worthy of praise. I get the feeling though, that the women of BK nails feel sorry for me when I pull up my pant legs to reveal the ankles and my hefty calves. That is why the leg reveal is always the low point of my visit.
In preparation for the customary soothing foot soak, I tried to pull up my pant legs. I knew right away I should not have chosen my cozy olive green parachute pants. The opening of the pants was small–very small. No match for my abundance. I tugged at the stubborn garment with increasing intensity and began to panic as the pedicurist approached. I was finally able to will the elastic up and over my calf with a sigh of relief, and then regret. The right pant leg didn’t make it that far. It got stuck just half way up my smug little shin. My tenacity had taken an unfortunate turn.
The manicure and pedicure commenced simultaneously, but I was not feeling pampered. All I could think about was the pant situation.
The fabric hugged just below my left knee like a tourniquet. My leg was going numb. My hands were being manicured and were unavailable for problem solving. How was I ever going to get my pant legs down? Typically the nail specialist repositions your clothing at the end of the service. The idea of her attempting to deliver my leg from the clutches of my own pants was horrifying. All I could think about was how to avoid that moment and save my leg.
Each time I was left alone for a moment, I would try to convince the depressing green fabric to submit and curse my colossal legs.
FLASHBACK Tinglestadt Hall –Pacific Lutheran University Circa 1997
I hadn’t worn a dress in months. I didn’t really like exposing my lower extremities to others, but I found a cute little number worthy of courage. I put on my Doc Martin boots and my new little black babydoll dress with white flowers and confidently entered the hallway. I had not even made it to the elevator before the sound of a vacuum in use abruptly ceased.
Georgia, the truth-telling housekeeper, approached with purpose.
“Girl!!!! You got some BIG LEGS! Suma gemalema hotdog%!”
To this day…The last sentence uttered by Georgia is a mystery.
Some believe she said, man, I’m gonna get me a hot dog..\ Others contend it was something more like : Damn, they look good. Hot Dog! I just hope it wasn’t: Man, they look like a couple hot dogs.
Whatever she declared that day, it was hurtful, and kept me in pants for years.
Return to Present
It was clear that scissors were going to be necessary to escape my own pants.
My nails were dry. It was time to pay . She reached to “assist me”.
Oh no, no…I am way too hot just leave them.
She looked at me defiantly and made a second attempt.
Oh no please. I am really too hot and I like them like this.
She wasn’t buying it. Maybe because it was by no means hot out. She went for the the haphazard pants again.
I get hot. I like them like this.
She digressed and accepted payment in spite of my weird request.
Now it was time to mosey next door to Desert Tan. This would be my only opportunity to turn my vulnerable legs a tender shade of beige before visiting those bossy tropics. It’s embarrassing enough to feel you need a spray tan in order to be presentable. It’s far worse, when you can’t get one because you are stuck in your own pants.
Hey do you have a pair of scissors? I need to cut off a tag, I lied confidently.
It would not be easy to get my legs out of fabric prison without being detected by the tanning specialist. I dropped down and frantically tried to work the scissors around the material that held onto me like vice grips. Another customer walked in. I was done pretending though. All I cared about was keeping my leg. I cut and ripped and pulled until I was free and handed the scissors nonchalantly back to the girl behind the counter. I was free. Sure, I looked like Bruce Banner after a meltdown, but it was better than losing a limb in a bizarre pedicure incident.
Have you ever been stuck in your own clothes? If so, how did you solve this problem?
*Mike and I went on our first date twenty years ago today! Full of love for him. We wear each other well.