Over a decade ago, I drank a few too many mojitos and proudly proclaimed I was training for a half-marathon. I was not. Somehow, though, the cocktail-induced proclamation prompted me to go on and finish over a dozen half-marathons and countless 5k, 10ks and fun runs. Each of these races shared two common goals: finish upright and with 10 toenails.
I’ve managed to keep both promises to myself, despite the obstacles of being plus-sized, lackluster on long runs, and a fan of pizza—stacked against me. I’ve had some close calls though. I have crossed a finish line only to collapse in a grassy field or give my legs an ice bath in Lake Superior. I’ve lost portions of toenails, added an inch of height due to calluses, and experienced a rare blister despite upsizing my shoes and buying the best socks possible.
But a promise is a promise, which leads me to what or should I say who I am incredibly grateful for helping me keep that promise to myself. Without them, I’d be lost – my pedicurists. (And yes, that is plural). It takes a village to keep my feet intact.
Like clockwork, after each successful finish line crossing, I treat myself to a spa pedicure. Sitting in a self-massaging chair while treating my feet isn’t reserved for racing; it’s a regular incentive for achieving pretty much any goal and a guaranteed gift my husband knows I will love. The one post-race, though, is always my favorite. Somehow, it feels extra earned and not given. For 60 minutes I allow myself the indulgence of letting someone else pamper the tools—my toes—that have yet to fail me.
I usually schedule one within a few weeks of race day. By this time I’m done self-sabotaging myself on what I could have done better. There is no time or energy for could have, should have during this hour. Instead, it is a time to just celebrate the small victory of finishing. That these 10 little piggies literally carried me over the finish line, asking for nothing in return.
Sometimes I make small talk with Evie over the hum of the vibrating chair that’s working the knots out of my back. How’s the weather, grandkids, lake life treating you – trading updates on small-town living and shared acquaintances. Other times, I just sit in sheer bliss, while I watch weeks of hard work be sanded away. I’ve earned those callouses— but it is time to make new ones on my next adventure. It is a bittersweet moment book-ended by the complexities of balancing the high achiever side of me with the acknowledgement that I am enough as-is. Equally as bittersweet is delaying my post-race pedicure due to Evie having heart surgery – a reminder of how our health is our wealth.
As a result, my most recent trip combined this post-race bliss with my ride-or-die co-workers/running pals and one of their 40th (give or take a few) birthday celebrations. As we soak our feet after an hour long facial, we joke about repeating this insanity again next year, as long as there’s plenty of margaritas, snap-chat selfies, endless laughing, and a reminder of what our bodies are capable of achieving, if only we let them. It is a brief hiatus from the chaos of day-to-day life.
As we wrap things up, the new-to-me nail tech gives my feet a quick dip in a hot wax before polishing my toes with yet another shade of blue. In return, I offer a generous tip for the woman who has worked her magic on prepping my feet for my next great run. And, a moment of gratitude for having the privilege of two legs, ten toes, ten shiny toenails and an opportunity to do it all over again.
I have probably had less than a half dozen pedicures in my lifetime…as I am too embarrassed to go. Running marathons/ultras/Ironman races for the past 50 years have taken it’s toll. Luckily I am still flexible enough to “do” my own nails when sandal weather approaches. And the callouses…I love them. Getting them taken off only to have to “grow” them all over again is painful!