Me time and punishment

A little something different for today’s blog post. What follows is an essay that I wrote over ten years ago about getting a pedicure, although it’s really about the struggles of being a working mother. Or any mother. Or just a person with a long task list. Although I am no longer working full time, I still sometimes (often) struggle with what I should do versus what I want to do. Apparently, the lesson I thought I learned from the “pedicure incident” is one that I need to learn over and over again.

Should I or shouldn’t I?  It’s 2:00 on a beautiful spring Friday, and my mind has already checked out of work.  My boss was gone—had been gone all week, actually.  The office was pretty empty already.  My biggest project was under control (meaning that there was little more I could do until I got replies from other folks throughout the company); my smaller tasks could all wait until Monday without undue harm. 

So, should I or shouldn’t I?  My three sons have karate after school today, and normally our neighbor would bring them home along with her own son.  This morning, however, neighbor Elizabeth had emailed to say she couldn’t bring the boys home and could I please pick them up?  Sure, no problem, I said, it’s just an excuse to leave early on a Friday.  So, I’m already planning to pick them up at 4:30, for which I need to leave the office (or the general area of the office) no later than 4:00. 

So, should I or shouldn’t I?  Let’s face it, my toes are in terrible shape.  Really, I’d be doing the world a favor by leaving an extra hour early and getting a pedicure.  Seriously, no one should see my toes the way they are.  (Which has not stopped me from wearing sandals.)  I’m not accomplishing anything at work, and there’s really no need for face time given that my boss isn’t even here.  So, definitely I should leave early.  But shouldn’t I run necessary errands rather than get a pedicure?  Or go watch the boys at karate, which they always want but I never find the time to do? 

That’s no way to think, I tell myself.  This is the “year of me.”  The year that one of my new year’s resolutions (finally made on April 17) was to “put me first.”  Not all the time, of course, but sometimes, at least.  Give myself permission to have a weekend lunch date with a girlfriend.  Snatch thirty minutes to read at home, even (gasp!) while the boys are still awake.  And, the holy grail of me time, get a pedicure.

I call my husband, Dean, and ask for help with my dilemma.  I’m hoping he’ll say of course, go on, treat yourself, you deserve it!  Instead, he seems somewhat perplexed that I asked him.  He’s right to be perplexed—on the few occasions that I get pedicures in a year, I rarely if ever ask his advice.  Perhaps the fact that I feel the need for permission today is a sign—but if so, it’s a sign I ignore. 

So, it’s decided!  I and my overly long, paint-chipped toenails are going for a quick pick-me-up.  I consider calling for an appointment, but the place I’ve got in mind, just a few blocks away, hasn’t been busy the few times I’ve been in.  Since almost an hour of obsessing has passed, it’s time to go, so I forget about calling and just head out the door.  It’s 2:55.

I arrive at the nail salon just ten minutes later, but there is no parking in front.  As I circle the block, I find that there is no parking on the south side, or in the back, or on the north side, either.  As I come back around on my second pass, however, a car is leaving.  Of course, I am already past that spot, so I circle the block again and nip into the too-small space.  I have to hold the door open carefully as I exit the car, to ensure that I do not ding the sporty convertible next to me, but I manage and head inside.

Oh, my stars.  Every seat is full.  It looks like they are just starting, too.  The receptionist must see the shock on my face and rushes in.  “It’s a bridal shower, but we’ll have room for you in 20 minutes.  You want manicure first?”

“No, no manicure, just a pedicure.  I can come back another time.”

“No, it’s okay!  We get you in.  Just 20 minutes, okay?”

 I look at my watch.  3:05.  “Here’s the thing,” I say, still not giving up my dream.  “I have to leave here no later than 4:00.  Can you get me in and be done before then?”

“Oh, yes, no problem.  4:00 no problem.  You wait here.”

Okay, I wait here.  I had my heart set on it, after all.  I pick out a color,  a dark purplish-pink, something a bit different for me, and sit down to check my email.  Suddenly the receptionist is there again.

“Would you like a complimentary chair massage while you wait?”

Would I ever!  This is turning out to be a super decision.  Obviously it was meant to be.  I follow the receptionist to the next room and find myself melting into the chair as Linda massages my neck and shoulders.  Mmmmmmm.  I need one of these every day.

Massage over, I check my watch—3:25.  I’m starting to get nervous, but just then I am summoned to a chair.  At last!  I settle in with my book, turn on the massage chair to continue the work already begun by Linda, and relax.  Ahhhhhh.  Just what I needed.

At 3:50, I slip on my shoes with the help of my nail technician before she begins the polish, mindful that I won’t have time for the paint to dry before I go.  But right now, we are still on schedule.  She is fast and sure with the brush, and barely 5 minutes later it’s all over.  As I check out, walking gingerly, the receptionist says “you even have 5 minutes to spare!”  Or so I thought.

The convertible is still parked absurdly close to my car (well, technically, I guess I parked absurdly close to the convertible, but only because the truck on my other side was taking up a space and a half) so I have to shimmy my way into the car.  And on the way in, the unthinkable happens—I bump my big toe.  My big right toe.  And there is a gash in the polish wide enough to need a band-aid.

I stare down at my toe in consternation.  What do I do now?  It needs to be fixed.  I just left 30 seconds ago.  Surely there is still time to get it repaired.  I check my watch.  3:58.  If I leave by 4:05, that really should be enough time, I tell myself.  No problem.  I head back inside.

I show my toe to the receptionist and she says “No problem!  Happens all the time.  Wait and I get nail person for you.”  Apparently she’s not qualified to put the polish on herself—only to find someone to do the deed.  I sit, but now I’m anxious.

A new nail technician joins me, abandoning her current client.  I have selected what I think is the same polish, but I can’t really tell for sure.  I didn’t memorize the name.  I have to explain what the problem is (like it’s not obvious!  Sheesh!  It’s the Grand Canyon running through the polish on my toe).  She nods and scurries off, returning quickly with polish remover.  4:02.

Polish off, she turns to the repainting—and cannot get the bottle open.  It was just open 12 minutes ago!  She can’t get it.  I want to offer, but she excuses herself and goes to the only male tech.  He can’t get it either.  He retreats to the back of the room, runs hot water on the bottle and gets some sort of tool out of a cabinet.  4:03.

The male technician finally gets the bottle open, and my savior comes back to me with the bottle.  Then she says something unintelligible to me, turns and walks away again.  I got one word—“sorry.”  Sorry for what?  For taking so long?  That the color doesn’t match?  That she’s got to go paint someone else’s nails?  I look at my watch again (it’s becoming a tic).  4:05.  I can’t wait.

I get up and walk out, naked toe and all.  I get in the car and am backing out when the poor technician comes running out of the building.  “Wait!  I do it now!”

“NO,” I say.  “I have to go pick up my children.  I am late.  I have to go.”

“But I do it right now!” she says, clearly agitated.

“No, I have no time.  I’m already late.  I can’t leave them standing there.”

“Can you come back later?”

Oh yeah, sure.  I live 30 minutes from here.  I won’t be back for weeks, if ever.  “No.”  I say.  “I live too far away.”  She tries again halfheartedly.

“I do it right now.” She says.  Upon my negative response, she says “sorry” in a quiet voice, then watches forlornly as I drive away.  It’s 4:08.

I scramble for my phone as I wait at the first of what turns out to be EVERY red light between the salon and the highway.  I get Dean on the phone, and, with stress in my voice, explain the situation.  “So much for the relaxing chair massage,” he says.  He’s right.  My shoulders are hunched, my neck is tense—and, of course,  I have a naked toe.  Plus the fact that I’m running late.  Dean asks if he should go pick up the boys. 

“No, I can still get there,” I say.  It’ll be close, but I can make it.  “Selfish, selfish, selfish,” I keep thinking to myself.  I can’t ask Dean to do it.   I just can’t.  I was supposed to do it today, and I’m late because I wanted something as silly as a pedicure?  What kind of a hedonist am I?  What kind of a mother?

At 4:14, at yet another red light, I sheepishly call Dean back.  “You’d better go get them,” I say quietly, my heart heavy with guilt.   “On my way,” he responds.

Me time.  What a foreign concept for working mothers.  Really, for all mothers.  Even when I get away, I am wracked by guilt…my punishment for wanting some time to myself. 

But when I get home, my boys (including Dean) are happy to see me. No one is upset that Dad picked them up instead of me. No one even notices the gash on my big toe (or that my toenails are painted to begin with). As we sit down for dinner an hour later, catching up on our days, everyone is happy. So maybe it wasn’t so bad that I took the time to get a pedicure after all. Not selfish, but smart. A little me time could actually be beneficial for my whole family. And that is a lesson to remember.