One day this summer, when my mom was visiting me, she told me, in no uncertain terms, that we were going to get a manicure. One of those luxuries I'd always deemed unnecessary, I agreed but was decided that I would do the minimum. One colour, no French treatment, real low-maintenance was what I was solely interested in.
I can get pretty excited about NARS Orgasm blush, or Smashbox lipstick or even that gloss that Monica Lewinsky was wearing when she was interviewed by Barbara Walters...but manicures. Or massages, or anything I perceive as being too self-indulgent, where someone has to provide a service for me. All of that Judeo-Christian guilt comes into play.
After the manicure, though, I thought, hmm. My nails do look swell. But no, no, no, no...
Now a day before Christmas Eve, I have to fess up. I got the works. Within the past two days, I have had a warm stone massage, a French manicure (complete with an aromatherapy paraffin dip for my hands), and today got my hair highlighted in nice warm tones.
What the heck is wrong with me?
Nothing, I hear. I'm supposed to be on the upswing with taking days for me, treating me, being good to me. The massage and the manicure were purchased by gift certificate at the end of last year and I've found every excuse not to use it until now when it was to expire. The hair was just the icing on the Pannetone. Which is something I am craving but having honoured my body and soul in myriad ways, I think I'll be taking it easy on the other indulgences.
Maybe not. We are going to a Christmas Eve hors d'oeuvres-y thing and there might be some indulgences that will honour me, body and soul ("I'm all for you, body and soul."--Lady Day
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