Don't Call Me Sweetie

Yes, I’m a tomboy. That being said, I still like doing the occasional girly thing, which includes getting manicures and pedicures on a semi-regular basis. I work outside so I’ve never been able to maintain a manicure, but now that gel manicures exist, I can actually almost look like a girl sometimes. (As long as you ignore the dirty boots, disgusting hat, and tendency to cuss like an angry drunk sailor.)

So I’ve been sick for a little over a week. The usual crap; sore throat, cough, aches, fever and enough snot to give the friendly folks at Kleenex a heart attack. I’ve always had this idea that going to the spa when you’re sick would be this magical rejuvenating experience. I’ve never done it, because I never feel like going out when I’m sick. This time, however, I happened to have an appointment in town. Afterwards, I realized this was my chance to go get spa treated back to good health. Plus I needed some spring colored nails for Easter so it was win-win. I set off to the spa with high hopes.

My favorite nail salon in town has an arched ceiling, painted blue, with big fluffy clouds painted all over it. It’s very nice to look at while getting a foot massage and pretending you don’t know how gross your feet are. There are a ton of chairs so you never have to wait, you just go sit and turn the massage chair on, and put your feet in the hot water and relax…ahhhhh. Perfect right? If I only knew what was coming.

I picked out my colors; bright green toes and turquoise fingers. I’m directed to my chair, and as I sit down, all I can think about is turning on the massage, feeling the warm water and browsing my phone pretending nothing else exists. That was probably the last comfortable moment that I had that day. As soon as I sit, the lady asks me if my current manicure is gel. I tell her yes and she decides she’ll let it soak off while she does my toes. If you’ve never had a gel manicure removed, let me break it down for you. They soak small pieces of cotton in pure acetone, and then adhere them to your nails by wrapping pieces of tin foil around them. This leaves you completely incapacitated because moving your alien like foil claws results in leaking acetone everywhere, or knocking off the foil fingers.

After my fingers were wrapped I couldn’t browse my phone so I just stared at the clouds, listened to the bubbling water, and engaged in my favorite activity: people watching…and then it hit… I don’t know if the pounding massage chair knocked it loose, or if it was because I had reclined my chair back too far, but I felt something roughly the size of a tectonic plate shake loose in my sinuses and slide down my throat. Let me get something straight. I. Hate. Phlegm. I step in horse shit daily, I have been covered in blood and pus from sick animals, and a large part of my workday involves horse semen, but I literally hate boogers more. Nothing is more disgusting to me.

So after this insanely disgusting chunk of slime slides down my throat, naturally, I gag. Bad move. Something catches in my throat. Immediately I have to cough. I can’t cover my mouth because my foil talons will gouge my eyes out. I’m holding my breath hoping the tickle goes away. This makes it worse. My eyes start watering and I start this weird involuntary heaving as the coughs try to force their way out. I’m trying not to draw attention to myself, but people are starting to notice the weird half coughs.

I have to cough, I can’t hold it in anymore. I survey my options. Directly ahead of me, the lady has just started working on my toes. I don’t think she’d appreciate being coughed on…ok, I can just turn my head. I look left and take a deep breath, but the seat next to me is occupied by an elderly lady who is already holding a handkerchief to her mouth to keep my clearly fatal germs away from her. Her eyes widen when she realizes I’m about to cough directly in her direction and I think one of us is probably going to faint. I manage to rein in the cough before I send this nice lady to the morgue.

I try to cough into my hand and, as predicted, stab myself in the eye and get acetone on my nose. This time I look to the right to cough. The woman occupying this chair has orange and yellow hair, her shirt is made of burlap, and I’m 100 percent sure she has a child named strawberry. I wonder if she’s brought her own all natural nail polish with her as I silently hyperventilate between half coughs. She has a peace sign tattooed on her foot, but I’m certain that mentality doesn’t carry over to unwanted germs from strangers. To avoid the risk of being forced to drink a kale, coconut oil, and deer urine cough remedy devised by Mayan medicine women, and passed down to this hippy via spirit quest visions, I go ahead and rein this cough in too.

At this point, I’m starting to get dizzy. I’ve turned off the massage chair and brought my seat up to a full upright position in the hopes the tickle will move down my throat. I can’t help it. I start full on coughing. I try to cough into my elbow. The tin-man foil nails are stabbing my ear as I do so. Once I start, I can’t stop. Tears are literally streaming down my face. I can’t catch my breath. Finally the girl looks up from my feet and says, “water?” Brilliant. Water. Why the hell didn’t I think to ask for water? I nod, as I continue my heaving coughing fit. I notice I have gone from people watcher to most watched person. Fantastic.

She brings me my water, but doesn’t open it for me. I’m too awkward to ask for help so I try using the palms of my hands since my foil nails from hell are in the way. Eventually this works and I take a sip. Sweet relief. Oh my God, you can’t imagine how much better I feel. I keep taking sips and trying to catch my breath. The people around me are very politely pretending not to notice me. I do see a mother move her baby discreetly to the other side of her chair, I’m pretty sure someone slips away to call the CDC, and I notice the hippy is googling the symptoms of tuberculosis on her phone. Other than that, all is calm again.

Out of concern for her life, the woman finishes my feet in record time. She immediately takes me to a manicure station and removes the stupid foil that got me in to this mess. Now my face is approximately 18 inches from her face. I do my best to stop sniffling and sipping water like a lunatic. Never has a gel manicure been applied so quickly. At least this time I can cough over my shoulder because no one is next to me. Still, the other spa goers do not look impressed with my presence.

I’m done. Thank God. I pay, and tip approximately 75 percent to try and offset the ridiculousness of what just happened. I’m fairly certain I hear cheers as the door closes behind me, and I think I see a manager walking around with a can of Lysol in each hand.  I do not feel refreshed, I do not feel girly, I am most definitely not cured from the spa. I’m exhausted, my head is throbbing, and I desperately need a tissue.

Moral of the story? Stay home if you’re sick. Spas are not for making you healthy again. Go to sleep. I’m still trying to decide if I’ll ever go back to that spa. I’m not sure I’ll be allowed to walk in the door….on the bright side, my nails look fantastic!