Time check: 4-ish

“I am here for the ‘full’ treatment,” I declare after dousing my hand in sanitiser and walking over to the reception.

At this point, I don’t know what that entails and I’m pretty sure I sound like Bane because of the mask.

The lady behind the counter has been waiting her whole life for this, it would seem as she springs into action, ushering me to the waiting area.

I look around hoping for a maskuaintance. No luck – the bored look from across the room says it all, “To hell with COVID”.

Lady Springer returns with a smile, “You’re getting a foot scrub and a haircut.” It’s as weird a combo as they come, but with all the stuff going on in the world, I figure there’s no time like the present to live dangerously.

She hands me over to a guy, no doubt as confused as I am (on the inside. On the outside, I am the picture of, “I do this ALL THE TIME”) who repeats what awaits me.

Time: 4:30ish

I’m offered sandals and I’m eternally grateful they chose this over Crocs (seemingly the pandemic’s choice of footwear) as I slip my feet into them – suddenly developing unnecessary self-esteem issues. I get the same way when. I go to the dentist – leave home dripping with confidence and then feeling some type of way when I get strapped into the dentist’s chair of doom.

The sandal offering guy leads me to a seat with a wee-little bubble bath, and asks me to dip my feet inside. “is it too hot?” he asks, sincerity displacing what in a lesser man would be disgust. “Nuh, it’s fine,” I say with a smile behind my mask. Truth be told, I’m low-key embarrassed by it all to feel any other sensation.

For some reason he places a towel on my lap, effectively frustrating any chance I have to monitor what’s going on in the foot kettle. I try to focus on the massage the chair has been ordered to give me – against its wishes, it seems, because the damn thing keeps alternating between gentle prodding and trying to push me away.

The foam in the lagoon of de-heat rises steadily and I expect a sentient plant from outer space to pop out screaming, “Feed me”.

The foot expert returns and fishes a foot out so he can get to work. The chair is more upset.

Somewhere along the way, a brief conversation ensues. He wants to know whether I’m also going to get a massage. I tell him my kids need to go to school and if I choose to go home smelling like essential oils… Or coffee, which may throw a spanner into things. He laughs, thinking it’s a joke.

He uses the pedicure equivalent of sandpaper to smooth out places under my foot that I had no idea are supposed to be smooth. WHAT HAVE I BEEN DOING TO MY SOCKS?

The foam seems to be vanishing at this point, so try to sneak a peek. The chair isn’t having it – in light of the strange relationship it has developed with my now submissive back.

Ooh, I recognize, this tool, it’s a nail clipper… Which I soon realize I’ve been misusing for only my whole life. My toes are ready to star in a commercial at this point. My ego checking in now and then as this goes on.

Foot guy fishes out the first foot he’d performed the, er, procedure on, possibly to inspect his handiwork. He promptly covers it with a towel and walks away. Shit.

I have half a mind to lift the towel to see how ‘bad’ things might be, but I’m also trying to figure out how I will ever go back to wearing shoes after this – that breed of footwear having been handed de-feet at the hands of “foot-guy-that-walked-away”.

Like Arnie, he’s back. With a fan. The mechanical kind, not some crazy voyeur with a foot fetish.

He reaches for a little ice-pick device and starts to, I don’t know, “dig”? Stopping briefly to use the faux-sandpaper brush. It’s becoming increasingly clear that if feet are enrolled into biometric scans, I’m screwed.

I like that the ‘foot guy’ asked about getting a massage instead of going after the low-hanging fruit and proposing a “wax” session.

I see what looks like a little bit of blood in the corner of my left big toe and hope this is not going to become the origin story for an ingrown toenail. I must remember to ask him to scoop that out.

Ah yes, we’re playing, “Foot in a towel” again then back to sanding. And now, a scrub with what looks like the sugar that was left behind after I’d gone overboard while preparing tea. He is probably used to having people make requests for coffee to be thrown in for good measure, but I won’t push my luck.

I really want to see how my sole looks right now, but can’t risk blowing my cover. No one must know it’s my first time… though I suspect the fact that I came wearing shoes may be a dead giveaway.

Now my feet are being washed and it doesn’t feel weird at all. I do pause to think that this is how the disciples must have felt way back when, but let’s not dwell on that. Or the fact that the chair and my back broke off their fling.

My feet are lathered in cream from a can that had the word “organic” on the side. That’s not bad, right? It smells like bubble gum. My shoes are going to flip out!

We engage in a little more banter, mostly about how busy the mani-pedi business gets. He picks the little pickaxe tool, likely a force of habit thing seeing as he does nothing with it.

He says he’s done and I really don’t know what to do with my new feet. I obviously can’t put them back inside the bubble bath because it’s now empty (come to think of it, I don’t know where the water went, did my feet absorb it?) so I choose to keep wearing the sandals around for a bit.

I toy with just leaving the spa with the sandals and letting the air from the boda-boda have its way with my toes then I would probably have to figure out how to cancel air.

Turns out I can’t stay there forever because other people need to use the facilities, so, until the next time. . . if there’s another next time, that is.