In celebration of our birthdays—hers last month, mine this week—my 17-year-old granddaughter and I did something wildly indulgent. Something radical. Something that made us feel like queens for a whole hour.
We got pedicures.
Now, this might not seem like a big deal to the average person, but when you spend your days knee-deep in hay, chasing goats who think fences are a suggestion, and wondering why the chickens are giving you the side-eye, a pedicure is basically a spa day on par with a five-star resort.
We soaked. We scrubbed. We picked out polish colors like we were choosing wallpaper for a royal castle. I went with a bright ruby. She went with a beautiful soft coral. I think mine says “refined elegance.” Hers says “I will absolutely win this argument, thank you.”
For sixty glorious minutes, we were pampered like ladies who have afternoon tea. The massage chair kneaded muscles I forgot I had. And when it was all said and done, we walked out with soft heels, shiny toes, and a renewed appreciation for people who willingly touch other people’s feet for a living. Saints, every last one of them.
Then I came home and did what any sensible farm woman would do with her freshly buffed and polished piggies.
I shoved them directly into a pair of muck boots. Because nothing says “Happy Birthday, tootsies!” like stepping into a questionable puddle of something warm, hoping it’s water. Boots protect the glorious feet.
The goats didn’t see. The chickens wouldn't have cared. The horse might’ve glanced, but only because I was late with his hay. But I knew. I knew there were fabulous feet under those boots.
And that, my friends, is the duality of womanhood: glitter toes and goat poop.
Happy Birthday, Toes. You deserved this.
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