Real man gets pedicure

All right, all you women out there, I’m on to you now. You keep all the good stuff for yourselves.

While we Neanderthals are out chasing little white golf balls, sweating in the heat of the summer, you’re sitting in massaging chairs at the air-conditioned spa getting pedicures. Well, you can’t fool us anymore.

Yours truly has gone where no man has gone before. That’s right, on our vacation last week to St. Simons Island, The Wife and I made a deal. If she’d get up at 5 and go kayaking for three hours through The Bloody Marsh, I’d get a pedicure.

The Bloody Marsh got its name from the last battle between the Spanish and British forces for control of the Carolinas and Georgia. Way back in 1742, the Spanish mounted one last attack but were driven back into the open marshlands of St. Simons. The legend states that so many Spaniards died there in one day that the marsh ran red with blood for two weeks.

Our kayaking guide told us one account had over 2,000 dying. In another, only five died. The rest were made up just to entice tourism. Don’t really know which story the guide told us was true, but as we floated through the marsh on our kayak built for two, I realized something. When you call a swamp a marsh, people will pay $1.5 million to have a house overlooking it.

During our flotilla, we saw countless cranes, flying fish, bull frogs, and pelicans all making home in the tall reeds of the Bloody Marsh. All around us there was nothing but the sound of nature. The only break in the serenity was made by our paddles as they dipped below the surface of the black water — and the occasionally running aground of our kayak in the reeds. For three hours there were no car stereos, no boom boxes, and no teenagers. Maybe $1.5 million is a fair price after all.

We concluded our kayaking trip with a walk on Sea Island before floating back to St. Simons and my dreaded pedicure. The Wife said she really enjoyed our trip, and it was silly that she had been up all night worrying about it. As we loaded the kayaks back onto the guide’s van, I admitted to her, that I too had been up all night worrying — about my first pedicure.

With our bellies full of Bubba Garcia’s tacos and a few adult beverages for courage, I thought life couldn’t get any better. I was wrong. We arrived at the nail spa for my 1 o’clock appointment. For you fellow Neanderthals out there, they call it a Nail Spa for a reason.

First of all, except for the owner, I was the only man in the entire place. Ten over-stuffed recliners with footbaths lined the left wall. Ten leather swivel chairs with little desks in front of them lined the right. All were filled with beautiful women. A quick elbow in the ribs from The Wife reminded me that gawking wasn’t the reason why we were at the nail spa.

Two ladies got up, and after the foot baths were cleaned and refilled with warm water, the owner led us over to our recliners. He said he was personally going to do my toenails. Then I sat down and took my shoes and socks off. That was about the time he suddenly got really busy in the front of the store. He called a petite lady over to take care of me.

After soaking in the footbath for 20 minutes, the spa lady dried my feet with a soft terry towel, scented with vanilla. For the next hour she cut, trimmed, cleaned, dug, and polished. All the while I sat in the overstuffed, leather, massaging chair watching Oprah.

Her program was all about why women leave their men. I could have told her why. They have dirty, stinking feet. Those men could have saved their marriage if only they gotten a pedicure.

When the nail lady looked at my big toes, I thought she was going to throw in the towel. She got up and left abruptly. But she soon came back with reinforcements, and for the last 20 minutes I had not one, but two spa ladies working on my feet.

I drew the line when the spa ladies asked me if I wanted clear toenail polish. A real man can only get in touch with just so much of his feminine side until other real men will start to look at him with a wary eye.

Besides, I thought the polish would dull the shine of the cute little rhinestones on my pinkie toenails. Can’t wait till the guys at the fire department see those.