The other day I got a very nice pedicure with my friend. She is pregnant. I am not. The nail salon was quite busy, so it took us awhile to be seen.1 There were three people in our party, all in a row. From left to right, it was me, my pregnant friend, and my mother.2 After a good long time spent with my feet soaking and my spinal cord being pinched by the massage chair3, the technicians started on our feet. The problem was that they started on my feet.4
I was horrified. Unfortunately, my desire to advocate for my friends did not override my mixture of aloofness and social anxiety in that moment. I did not say anything. I sat there, having my feet rubbed pleasurably while my massively pregnant friend’s feet were suspended in a rapidly cooling water, approaching some sort of vague simulacrum for the baby floating inside of her.5 Reflecting on this moment, I wondered why I was served first. Why wouldn’t my pregnant friend receive service first? Isn’t that customary? If you were going to go in a straight line, why not start with my mother, the eldest of our group? Was it because the nail technician perceived me as a man, and men are served first? Did she think I was paying?6
Deep down, I know the answer is probably that the nail technician was operating on autopilot this late into a stressful day. Still, this occurrence did send me into a tailspin. I felt indebted to my friend for not speaking up and sending the warm hands to touch her feet first.7 Is this essay my penance? Can one apologize via email newsletter and have it mean anything at all? Will my friend see this when I post it to my Instagram Story and have a hearty laugh reading this shared experience through the eyes of another? All of these questions evade me as much as: “Why was I served before the pregnant woman?”
It was the Saturday before Easter. My nail technician said that every single person through those doors wanted an elaborate and often egg-themed design. I did not envy her.
My mother is also a friend of my friend’s.
In combing through my memories after, I realized that there was a “width” setting on the remote for the chair. Does spinal column width correspond to height or birth sex? Anyway, I might have avoided the squeezey-squeeze if I’d played with this button more.
And on my left foot! Which I don’t know if is odd or not.
I believe the baby is much warmer.
I did not pay for the pedicure.
Not to mention another massive faux pas: The nail technician asked if I had fathered my friend’s baby. Half-hearing the question and not wanting to ask for clarification, I nodded vigorously and said, “Yes!” :(
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