Decision 2020

A day after the presidential election, I can still feel the fear all the way down to my, well, toes. And it’s not because we still don’t know who will lead our great nation for the next four years.

The cause for my concern on Election Day had little to do with polling, electoral votes or MSNBC’s Steve Kornacki pushing one-too-many interactive map buttons. (The guy never sleeps!)

On Tuesday, I saw my life flash before me while awaiting a pedicure at Happy Nails in a nearby strip mall.

I know what you’re thinking: You got your toes done on Election Day?

Yes, because we had to. Heck, the last one was before Labor Day.

You know it’s time for a pedicure when you can exfoliate one foot with the other. Plus, the appointment gave me a good reason to shave my legs.

Pedicures seemed like a fun way for my sister Corky, Rebecca and me to begin what would be a very long night of watching late returns.

Seated between makeshift plexiglass barriers at each pedicurist station (think motorized massage chair and a popemobile), the three of us sank into soft leather recliners like melted butter. This was the life.

The soothing, bubbly water in each of our respective sanitized foot baths slowly filled to the rim, Epsom salts softening our callused hooves. All we were required to do was select our nail polish color and the leg scrub scent: cucumber, lavender or pumpkin.

All hell broke loose after I whispered, “Um, cucumber, please.”

“You hurt me! You so rough! Why you so rough!” said the masked woman with an Eastern European accent wearing open-toed leather mules.

Christ on a bike! WTH is going on?

Frankly, I was surprised the client noticed anything since she was prattling on about nothing on her cell phone for most of her visit.

Apparently, the nail technician was too aggressive when trimming around her ingrown toenail. Who gets a pedicure when you have a bad toenail?

No one. Ever.

I immediately planned my escape route. Surely, there’s a back door in this place. I actually checked my pockets for anything resembling a weapon: car keys, a Swiss Army knife, corkscrew.

Sorry to say, all I had in my jacket’s arsenal was a tissue pack, two LifeSavers Pep-O-Mints and an unwrapped Ricola cough drop.

Crap.

And what about my companions? I’d drag them out of this salon by their slippery lavender-/pumpkin-scrubbed legs if I had to. But I didn’t.

Like a Ninja warrior sporting a French manicure, a tiny nail technician from the front of the salon appeared and managed to calm down the irate customer and diffuse the situation.

I was grateful that lady wasn’t packin’ heat. After all, this was Election Day in Michigan.

Luckily, the woman with the ingrown toenail left the salon, and we all stared straight ahead wondering if there was such a thing as bulletproof plexiglass. I had time, so I googled it. (No. There’s only bullet resistant.)

Mumbling, the unhappy Happy Nails technician collected her tools and retreated to the salon’s back room. No way was this place living up to its name today.

By now, Rebecca and Corky’s pedicures were in progress, and they had both closed their eyes, no doubt attempting to remove visions of ingrown toenails dancing in their heads.

I waited, my poor feet looking like giant prunes soaking in tepid Epsom salt water. Looking up from my phone, I saw the back of a nail tech preparing for a pedicure. She walked toward me. Crap.

“Oh, great,” I mumbled just a tad too loudly under my “VOTE 2020” face mask.

It was her. The unhappy Happy Nails technician. Double crap.

“I’m just kidding!” I said, as she glared at me, innately sensing my subzero tolerance for foot pain and general fear of all things rough.

I survived, but I won’t be seeing her next time. That’s my decision 2020.

God bless America.