A few of my pedicure pals after closing out the season with a 10K.

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.