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Whoa. That Miss Forrest and her Tarot Table are kind of spooking me out. This is the second time she has been asked about the outcome of an election and has been spot on the money. Granted, I am happier about the outcome this time around, but right is right. I guess I need to start asking her some questions about things I have been wondering about and didn’t know who to ask. Sorry, I just had to get that off my chest.
The hands of time are once again passing over me and I am now another year older. It’s hard for me to think about the fact that I have been in this plain of existence for half a century but the records don’t lie. I was born in this valley on Broadway in the City of San Gabriel in a hospital that no longer exists. It was replaced with apartment style condos many moons ago.
My grandmother, Nonie, never thought that I would make it this long based on what she viewed as my wild behavior in my youth. She never thought I would make it past 18 years of age. My doctor, in my youth, said I wouldn’t make it past 30 if I didn’t stop smoking. Well I dodged that prediction as well. I guess if I want an accurate reading on how much more time I really have left I should ask Miss Forrest, but I think that some things are best left to the unknown.
Speaking of the unknown, there are some things that you come to take for granted as being truths. But as we all know, the news media seems to take great pride in trashing those truths with every new research report that surfaces. This week’s victim, milk. Yes, milk. According to a report that came out this week, milk doesn’t contain as much calcium as once thought. The report went on to say that if you want to give your children calcium-building foods, instead of milk, try turnip greens, tofu, and broccoli.
Oh yeah that will work. It was hard enough to get the kids to drink milk. I can’t imagine trying to sell them on turnip greens or tofu. Broccoli maybe, but the other two, forget about it. I don’t know why the news reporters felt compelled to make a big deal about this. Again, this is one of those things that should have remained unknown. I’m positive that the Dairy Council wishes it had.
Going into the unknown is what keeps life interesting, right? At least that is what I have been told my whole life. Despite fifty years of trying to sell myself on this notion, there are just some things that I would just as soon not experience. But my wife, when she sets her mind to it, can be very persuasive. When she decided that as part of my birthday present, she was taking me to get a pedicure, it was a trip to the unknown I was going to be taking, like it or not.
Despite my Peter Pan frame of mind, and my refusal to grow up, time has fought me every step of the way. As my body has gotten older, those little aches and pains that come with age have begun to surface. No matter how much I try to ignore them some remain. For some time, one of those areas of pain has been my feet.
Like most guys, in my mind, there are certain things that guys don’t do. You know, like go to the doctor, ask for driving directions, and get pedicures. But Stacey’s resolve was firm and she kept insisting that the cure for my foot woes was this procedure. And procedure is how I was viewing it, like I was going in for some kind of surgery. Every time she tried to make me commit, I would dodge and weave, coming up with every excuse I could muster to avoid it.
As our little dance continued, Stacey’s frustration was becoming more evident. While at first my fear of the unknown was amusing to her it was now becoming annoying. Pedicures were something she has done on a regular basis, as does our Governator. Arnold is nuts about his foot care. Even after he had open-heart surgery a few years back, he insisted that his manicurist keep their regular appointment while he was in the hospital. Since I figured nobody is more macho than Arnold, if he can do it, why not me? So with great hesitation I said yes and prepared to venture into the great unknown.
This was always Stacey’s, and my daughter Rachel’s, domain. I felt like an interloper, an outsider invading their sanctuary. So I entered slowly, like an animal exploring new territory, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. The people who ran the joint welcomed us, and despite the fact that they were wearing surgical masks, their eyes said that they were friendly.
My pedicurist took her place in front of me and didn’t waste any time submerging my feet into a vibrating foot tray with warm water. I felt myself start to relax, but only momentarily, because quickly thereafter out came her tools of the trade. They were the most serious looking nail clippers I had ever seen. They made my nail clippers at home look like a kid’s toy. Talking with them was limited due to the language barrier, but it didn’t hamper them getting the job done. Most instructions were prompted with the hands. My pedicurist moved like a surgeon, and despite the terrified look on my face, the pain was minimal. In a flash she was done and ready to move on to my wife. My wife, by the way, was having a great time watching the scared look on my face as I squirmed as each new tool presented itself.
The next day my feet were sore from the assault but I was assured, by the more experienced members of my household, that this was only temporary, and they were right. By the following day my feet felt better than they had in years, and I don’t mind saying that they hadn’t looked that good since I was twenty.
So I guess I can take one more place off my list of the unknown. Now if I could only do that with the bridal shops and some of the restaurants in town.
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