Diving feet first into a pedicure

I was thinking the other day, while I was getting my toes done, that I need to get out of Los Angeles before it's too late, before I start frequenting spas or doing picnics at the Bowl on a regular basis. In about five years, L.A. is destined to become the first unisex city in America. As it is, they've got poor Joe Torre doing ads for green tea.

And I want no part of that. A real nation has two political parties and two distinct sexes, Sacha Baron Cohen not withstanding.

"Isn't this fun, Daddy?" my daughter says.

Can columns jump the shark? This one has. I am in some froufrou Pasadena nail salon with my daughter, cashing in on the Father's Day gift she gave me, a gift certificate for a full-bore pedicure. I shrugged it off for weeks after I got it, figuring it for a joke.

"How's tomorrow afternoon?" the little girl asked.

"Huh?"

"For the pedicure," she said.

"Um, I have a meeting."

"How about Wednesday?"

When she'd set up an appointment, I'd break it. Like most teenagers, my daughter has no idea exactly what her father does for a living, so it's easy to fool her into thinking I have lots of important meetings.

"Ten a.m. Tuesday," she finally said -- a statement, not a question.

"OK," I said, sensing tears.

So now I am in some pink and white nail salon in Old Pasadena. By the way, I don't know why they call parts of it Old Pasadena. From what I can tell, the entire city looks like Rome.

"Other foot," the nice foot therapist is saying.

"Do you serve ice cream here?" I ask.

She giggles.

"Because this looks like the sort of place that should serve ice cream," I say.

And it does. It has Lucite shelves and counters. It is very clean. Maybe it's a hospital.

"Do you take Medicare?" I ask.

She giggles again.

Seems clear I'm not going to get a straight answer out of the foot therapist. She is fixated on my feet, which is flattering. My wife, Posh, won't even look at my feet. When we're spooning in bed and my feet touch hers, she gets the willies, as if she just stepped on a possum. An hour in the shower and she is back.

Truth is, I have the face of a 12-year-old and Moses' feet. These little piggies have a million miles on them, and that's just from going to the fridge and back for beer.

They are a man's feet, the color of whiskey. Gnarly, notched with scars and calluses. Some places appear to have been burned with a blowtorch. The big toe on the starboard side looks like it's growing a nose.