Pedicure

(2012) I feel sorry for her, sitting there across from me, digging into the recesses of my toes. For $4, she is removing the dirt I’ve been carrying around all summer—from Indiana to Cleveland to Chicago to Michigan to Hong Kong to West Virginia to Brazil. I’ve tried to clean my toes, but I can’t do it like she can—and she hasn’t done them for four months.

I wonder what she is thinking as she digs and scrapes and cuts: “dang her feet are dirty.” Feet across the tile floor, across the cobblestone path, through the grass; hoping there are no scorpions. My feet get the brunt of it. Taking me all over Brazil. Jogging through sugarcane fields in a moment of quiet, stepping up to the Kombe, hanging my leg down the side of the motorcycle. Dirt from everywhere.

I only do it once a month. It is frivolous, getting a pedicure while working among people who cannot get a decent meal. But it is something special. Something simple. And it hurts like the dickens because she cuts and digs and prods until my toes are warm and pink again. It is investing in myself. It is taking time to stop and clean up, let go, take off. And it is worth it.