I am not a fan of feet. They're gross. Looking at them. That's gross. Touching them. Gross. So I'm getting a pedicure. Makes sense, right?
But I have wine.
A small Asian man with a cough forecasting the onset of tuberculosis is filing my toenails. Peering at them through tortoise shell cheaters while wheezing what I'm sure will be one of his last breaths.
It's fucking skeeving me out. The whole combination is gross. A: feet. B: phlegmy old dude. 3: touching. A lot of it.
So I suck Cabernet from a Tervis. God I love my Tervis. It allows me to ignore the dot o' snot he keeps sniffing up his left nostril. With each sip, and by sip I mean lengthy suck, I also ignore the foot thing.
Yet I'm paying $55 (tip included because I can't not tip a dude for making a living off feet) to be outside of my comfort zone for about 30 minutes. I consider it a growth opportunity.
Why didn't I bring the 32 oz. Tervis? I don't know that 18 ounces of scrumptious Cab will last me. Growth. Remember, growth.
And I'm about to grow even more. Cheese grater time. Watching dead calloused skin fall like Parmesan cheese onto the towel is gross. I believe this is why I don't put grated cheese on any entrée. Ever.
The wine is almost gone according to the hollow of my cheeks as I work on sucking every damn drop of the stuff from my thankfully non-transparent walktail glass.
Typhoid Ted doesn't seem to care about the cheese. It's a regular Tuesday for him. His cheaters are off now though. Guess even he doesn't want to see that too closely.
Uh-oh. Massage time. But wait . . . Oh. My. God. Ted has magic hands. His bony fingers are caressing my calves and feet in ways that make me wish I had more wine. Some candles. And that he looked more like My Crush.
Not that I want MC to spend a lot of time on my feet, but I would let MC's hands do that to many other parts of my anatomy. Digressing. I blame the wine and my empty stomach.
And now I sit here happily buzzed. Practically pre-orgasmic in as relaxed a state as I am able to get on a Tuesday afternoon with Ted hacking a lung as his fingers turn my calves to buttah.
The lotion smells too flowery and sweet. I'm going to leave here smelling like a $2 hooker. Gross.
Thank god the liquor store is next door. Smelly or not, I'm empty.
We have been friends for more years than we haven't. Perhaps because of that or simply because we both have jobs/family that seem to encourage escape, we often bond over an ounce or so of liquid magic. Through these experiences, we have discovered the joys that can come with a well-crafted cocktail, quality beer, and excellent wine. It's about quality for us, and we want to share that with you.