I know you've seen it: the painting of the woman in the salon, getting pampered and preened by a flock of Nubian Zues-like Gods. In the picture, the woman looks serene--blissfully happy to be spending some much needed time away from oil changes and reports, taking out the trash and folding laundry, away from suits and dastardly high heels, away from cooking, away from cleaning, away from life. She is at peace. She is zen.
This past Sunday I became that woman.
I have had a ridiculously busy past six weeks: my job has exploded into project after project and I've been stretched to my max. A few weeks ago I took six planes in six days (very difficult) from the midwest to the southwest. In short--I'm worn out.
So, I did what any clear-thinking woman in that position would do: I scheduled a manicure and pedicure. I also brought a bottle of champagne. And wine.
A bottle of champagne into the afternoon, we started a very lovely pedicure. While I was soaking my tootsies in a bowl of bubbly warm water and filling my insides with bubbly cool champagne, I looked up to see my manicurist's boyfriend walk through the door.
Did I mention that they are both ridiculously attractive? No, seriously. Ridiculously. Attractive. Gayer than Ten Lords A-Leaping bedazzled with five golden rings, but gorgeous nonetheless.
So, while one gorgeous man finished my manicure, another finished my pedicure.
Life. Is. Good.
At that moment, I realized that six out of my top ten fantasies were being fulfilled. The other four involve a jar of molasses, a tightrope, a golden key and a clearn night lit by the shine of the North star, but that's neither here nor there.
Now, you're probably wondering "how is this a date?
Well, it wasn't.
But it was still damn fun.
Evelyn Parkside
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