Given my current state (7 months pregnant and counting), I’ve reached the point where I can no longer contort my body into odd positions in order to paint my toenails. So you can imagine the predicament I found myself in this weekend when I realized that the pedicure I got for my birthday last month was looking a little shall we say, less than perfect. (SIDE NOTE: I don’t want to even go into details about how I was able to make this discovery. For now, I’ll simply say that I have a couple of pulled muscles, and a small bruise on my bum.)
Back to the problem at hand…My pedicure was wearing thin, and I couldn’t reach my own toes anymore to remedy the situation. What to do? What to do? I was pondering this very thought when my husband entered the TV room, paint brush and bucket in hand, ready to tackle the walls with a fresh coat of gray paint. (SIDE NOTE: My husband has taken the concept of “nesting” to a whole new level with his painting frenzy over the past few weeks, as he’s been busy painting every single room except for the baby’s. Seriously, our house has gone from boring old dingy-colored off-white dirty walls all throughout to various shades of cream, white, gray, black and brown.)
As my husband proceeded to spread out newspapers and dip his paint brush into the can, I remembered a conversation I had earlier with my co-workers regarding my funky-toe situation. Long story short, the consensus around the water cooler was that I should ask my husband to paint my toenails for me.
So I asked in my most sing-songy-I’m the sweetest-wife-that-ever-lived voice: “Hey honey…”
“Yes?” He said, raising an eyebrow and re-dipping his brush in the paint.
“Do you think, that is, could you do me a favor and maybe kinda sorta paint my toenails for me?” I rushed out in one fast breath because I thought for sure his answer would be ‘No.’
My husband dunked the brush back in the paint and proceeded to spread it across the wall. For a moment, I thought he didn’t hear my question, but then he finally shrugged and responded: “Well, I’ve been painting walls for the past few weeks…I think I can handle painting your toenails.”
Well, my husband was able to handle painting my toenails just fine. What he was not able to handle was my reaction to his “joke” that my feet smelled bad. For some reason (I blame pregnancy hormones), I burst into tears as soon as he made the comment that I needed to “wash my stinky feet before he would go anywhere near them.”
I’m not exaggerating in the least when I say that it took a full 10 minutes of my water works, followed by a good foot scrubbing in the tub and repeated apologies from my husband before I would let him touch my feet again.
And ya know what? He didn’t do half bad…Check it out: