I know I said last night I would be on hiatus for awhile, but a girl can change her mind, right? I was reminded this evening of a funny story, and I thought I'd share it with you.
I am married to a big strapping guy. He does manly stuff like take out the trash and change the propane on the gas grill. He fancies himself quite the outdoorsman and enjoys hunting, fishing, and golf. He loves football, hates the Cowboys. He is a good provider and protector, here in the Land of Estrogen.
His shoulders are broad, he carries a few extra pounds. He is hairy and he has big feet. He snores and his goal in the morning is to get clothes on that match...he doesn't begin to pretend to understand the concept of an "outfit." He is unabashedly a big smelly boy.
For a guy who is perfectly happy wearing a golf shirt and Dockers every day of the week, he cleans up pretty nicely. He prefers his clothing freshly pressed (too bad he chose me for a wife), and he never fails to spritz himself with some masculine foo foo juice of some sort, so he always smells good. His beard is cleanly trimmed, and he wears his hair quite short and always nicely groomed. Most days he leaves the house looking pretty well put together.
But as all you married girls know, a husband is sort of a work in progress. As much as he gets right, there is always room for improvement. And given my man's propensity towards the manly version of "getting ready" I've had some hurdles to clear during the past 15 years.
I worked on him for years, YEARS! I tell you, to get his eyebrows waxed. Lots of guys can pull off the no-maintenance brow, but my man is just a lot better looking when an aesthetician works her magic on him. I begged. I pleaded. I nagged. And finally, he gave in. Now, he's hooked. And, by the way, all the more handsome for it.
My latest ongoing Metrosexualization Project has been The Pedicure. I tell him to just suck it up and go do it. Your feel will feel great in the warm bubbly water. You get to sit in the fancy chair and the Magic Massage Motion will take away the troubles of your day. Kind of like Calgon, only in a nail salon surrounded by girls who don't speak English. Lena the Nail Goddess will clean up those calluses and trim up those toenails (I try not to use the word "nasty" here because I think it's a bit offensive). I sense that I am ever so close to selling him on the idea.
One Friday evening last fall, we found ourselves with a child-free Friday night on our hands. I needed a pedicure badly, and I pitched the idea to my beloved. We'll go have dinner, get side-by-side pedicures, and then find a way to while away the child free hours. He didn't bite, so I sent him home alone to ponder what he could have been doing with me while LittleG was away. And I went for a mani-pedi.
When I got to the nail salon, Lena the Nail Goddess swept me to my appointed nail station so she could give me the child-free Friday night pampering I so deserved. As we walked to her station, I noticed a nice grandfatherly looking man in the waiting area. I figured he was waiting for his wife or maybe a granddaughter, so I have to admit I didn't pay much attention to him. At first.
As Lena got started on my nails, something in the waiting area caught my eye. A quick flash of red kind of crossed my peripheral vision, so I turned to see what it was. There, in the waiting room, right on the bench by the nail polish, sat the nice grandfather guy. He was sixty-ish or so, wearing a polo type shirt and khaki pants.
And four-inch patent leather peep toe pumps.
Yeah, you read that right. Four inch patent leather peep toe pumps - red ones.
Before I could laugh out loud or stare inappropriately, Lena took me back for my pedicure. After a few minutes, you guessed it, here comes Gramps, headed for the spa chair next to mine. He slipped off his pumps - and trust me, they were fabulous - and one of the other girls got started on his pedicure.
At this point, I am too stunned to speak. While the other clients around us began to visit with him about his fabulous shoes, I did the only thing I knew to do. I turned up my iPod, shut my eyes, and prayed for it all to end. Lena finished me up and sent me off to the fancy toe dryer, and I missed the end of the conversation about where in the world a man who is over six feet tall can go to find a decent pair of stilettos.
I leave the shop with all the composure I can muster and go home and tell MrG what I've just seen. I let some time elapse before I call Lena to get the scoop, and I try not to giggle when I ask her for the low down on Gramps. Is he in the theater, I wonder? No. Is he a drag queen? No. What's the story then? Lena tells me, "he's just some normal guy." Huh? Say what?
Hate to tell you, Lena, but normal guys watch football. They wear clothes that usually almost match. They brush their hair and trim their beards. Sometimes they get their brows waxed. But a "normal" dude does NOT frequent the salon-in-a-box for semi-monthly spa pedicures, complete with French tip nail polish.
I've thought about Gramps often since our first encounter, but I have not been back to the shop on Friday night since then. Until tonight. I waltz in, and lo and behold, there sits Gramps, feet happily submerged in a tub of fragrant bubbly water.
Turns out, pedicures and high heel shoes are his thing. He's a regular in the shop, every other Friday night, 6 pm. Always French Tip polish, and always high heeled shoes.
Tonight he was pretty conservative in his white golf shirt, khaki capris, and cork wedge heel sandals, complete with woven straps and shiny rhinestones. If I had to guess, I'd say they were about 3 inches high. I suppose a boy's gotta go casual when he's sporting his summer capris.
A rather large, and dare I say scary-looking, man of color came in with his wife for side-by-side pedicures this evening, and they sat down in their respective spa chairs just as the Nail Goddess In Waiting was finishing up with Gramps. I guess since the guy had already forfeited his Man Card at the door, he lost all rights to judge another man at the pedicure station. But that didn't stop him from guffawing out loud as Gramps teetered out to his truck once his polish dried.
After what we're calling the Patent Leather Peep Toe Pump incident, I've given up trying to drag MrG in for a pedicure. And I'm pretty sure that the lovely lady who was in with her man tonight won't be enjoying side-by-side pedicures with her guy any time soon, either.
I guess now I need a new project for MrG, because the pedi' ain't ever gonna happen for my man. Thanks, Gramps.