The price I pay for beauty.

Every once in a while I break down and drop 40+ dollars to allow someone to molest me. 

The whole experience is like child birth (or what I’m told child birth is like), you forget until you’re in the throws of it, how uncomfortable the whole situation is.
The scenario goes like this: someone posits the idea in my head and I’m all like, “that sounds so nice and relaxing!” Then, I push it off until one day I spontaneously go spend the money and it’s not until I’m sitting in the chair that I realize how completely not relaxing the whole experience is. 
I don’t think I’ve specified yet, but I’m talking about getting a mani/pedi.
I go in and I sit in the pedi chair and as soon as my feet his the hot chemical bath I lose my shit internally. I spiral into a panic that someone is touching my feet, clipping my dead skin and probably discussing the whole raunchy process in a mocking tone to the technician next to them.
I don’t like discussing my feet with anyone, I certainly don’t want anyone else discussing them.
After the wave of panic hits, then I start to feel guilty. 
Like, “Really Alli? You couldn’t paint your own fucking toes? You had to stick those nasty things in this poor girl’s face?” And then I start studying the feet next to me to see if they’re nicer than my own.
Don’t even get me started on the vaguely sexual hand massage they give you before painting your fingernails. . .
Long story short, I exit the who ordeal with my gut in a knot and feeling about 200% more tense than when I walked in.
I tried explaining this to Chris after he asked why I was so uptight when I got home, but he promptly shook his head and goes, “I don’t want to even hear this. You paid someone to make you feel like this.”
On a totally unrelated note, ever try to eat a grape with a fork?
Shit’s a game of roulette for whoever is sitting next to you.

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