Intimate experiences

My mother gave me a gift certificate to a nail salon for Christmas. It's always a pleasure to have a pedicure done because I happen to have the world's funkiest feet. They are dry and cracked and overall gross. (BTW my husband has eerily soft and supple feet, like a real woman's feet oughta feel.) Anyway, the salon itself is in Charleston and I hadn't yet had time while there to cash in. But Cory/Adam had to be there for a state thespian competition today and I was able to get an appointment. At 9 AM. That meant we left the house by seven so I could leave the little ones at Mom's and get back to town.

Anytime I have had a mani/pedi I have always felt uncomfortable about the exchanges that are appropriate or expected. I don't know if should talk to the manicurist or if I should just allow them to go about their business. Usually, I just hang back and follow their lead. But it occurred to me today that these experiences require intimate moments be ignored. When a virtual stranger is washing, clipping, massaging my feet, calves and hands and yet there is no dialogue it is pretty freaky. I mean, even my husband won't touch my funky feet. When they massaged my hands and interlace their fingers with mine I am reminded that I have held hands with precious few people in my life. It's just really strange.

Blogging feels the same way sometimes. I like getting comments, like knowing people across the globe might be interested in something I have to write about. At the same time, it's so personal a thing to share with virtual strangers. Totally surreal.