And, honestly, my feet might be my nicest feature.
Booted, these feet have pushed over tree stumps, kick-started horses and motorcycles. Naked, these feet have stepped on catfish, scampered over barnacled boulders, collected 10,000 splinters on docks from here to Long Island. I swear, you could build a nice oak desk just from the splinters currently in my feet.
So maybe they deserve a little pampering. Best as I can recall, no one has ever touched these feet before today, except for the obstetrician on the day I was born. And the poor salesman, on the rare occasion -- every five years or so -- when I buy new shoes.
"Have you ever seen such beautiful feet?" I ask my daughter.
"No, Dad," she says, not looking up from her fashion magazine.
"Each toe a little pearl."
"Right, Dad."
"You're lucky you have my feet," I say.
"Shhhuuuuuush," she says, shushing me dead.
These are the things we do for our kids. We wake up every morning for 40 years and go off to work. We wait up for them at night, hold them when they cry, feed them soup when they are lovesick.
I have indulged every kind of trend, technology, rock group, hair style and cosmetic idiocy my teenagers have thrown my way.
I have said yes more than I have said no.
And now I am in a Pasadena nail salon, making the ultimate sacrifice. My first and final pedicure.
"Lavender?" the foot stylist says, holding up tubes of scented cream.
"Do you have root beer?" I ask.
"No," she says.
"Because I really like root beer."
"I have peach?" the foot stylist says.
Please help me God.
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chris.erskine@latimes.com
