After a long day of school and consignment shopping for winter, dotted with ‘practice contractions’ in which I waddled around the expo center dragging my bags of bargains across the floor and sitting in countless rocking chairs for sale to catch my breath, I decided it was time for a pedicure.
1. I have been unable to reach my feet for about a month now.
2. I have been unable to see my feet for about 2 weeks now. So I have no clue what’s going on down there.
3. But when I rub my feet together, they feel like sandpaper.
4. Maybe if I get a pedicure, the little man will decide to make his entrance.
The Hero Hubs graciously kept aaalll the kids aaallll afternoon and evening, so I was FREE. Free to sit in a massage chair with my feet in a tub of hot water. Free to sit quietly, where the only serious decision I would have to make is what color would I like my toe nails to be?
The technician tasked with the search and rescue of my feet was pregnant. Not just a little pregnant, but the same amount of pregnant as me! Talk about potential guilt! I mean, doesn’t this break some sort of Pregnant Lady Code (“Thou shalt not cause a fellow pregnant woman undue strain.”) Oh, and come to find out, she has a 10 month old at home. Yup, she’s one of those crazies that has back-to-back babies.
When I entered the Land-Of-No-Children-Or-Responsibilities (a.k.a. the salon) I noticed said technician and noted an ever-so-slight pooch. It looked like she was either 6 weeks pregnant or just beefing up for winter. I don’t know. But I certainly wasn’t going to say anything, since I learned the hard way when I asked a clearly 9-month-pregnant lady when she was due (I even waited to approach her until I had confirmed she was wearing maternity pants) only to hear the dreaded “Oh, I’m not pregnant”.
So here I am, sitting in my massage chair being pampered by a woman due 2 weeks after me.
You just can’t make this stuff up.
It would’ve made a great Seinfeld episode.
Oh, and I went with purple 🙂
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