Susan Cipriano / Pixabay

A supervisor joining me on my ‘vacation’ escorts me through the airport. She says she wants to help me relax. More likely, she wants to get a free vacation for herself. I do not argue, though.

The flight consists of screaming children, snoring, obnoxious passengers, and rude flight attendants. I swear in the hopes of them kicking me out. Instead, I am given a sedative thanks to the supervisor. The airplane lands on a Greek island when I wake up. We shuffle towards the exit, and I keep my head down to avoid eye contact.

We arrive at the hotel around noon. The room is ocean-side with five-star amenities. I stare at my feet while sitting at the desk. Tears well up in my eyes. A voice calls out to me.

“Would you like a pedicure?”

“Huh?”

“You’re staring at your feet, and they seem to be in need of pampering.”

I say nothing.

“They have pedicures at the hotel’s spa. Let’s go there now.”

I nod, knowing that saying otherwise is futile.

I reiterate that my workaholism always comes first before any desire to take care of myself. However, the fascination of why people wanting others to pamper their feet sometimes crosses my mind.

We arrive at the spa, ordering a gel pedicure for my supervisor and a French tip for myself. The pedicurist looks at my feet, and a shadow of disgust crosses her face. I begin blushing. The first pedicure in the twenty-seven years of my life begins with embarrassment. I fight the urge to jerk away during the massage. She begins applying white polish to toes’ tips. I release a strange giggle that catches my supervisor off guard.

She smiles at me and says, “Oh, you’re coming out of your shell. That’s great!”

I say nothing more. The supervisor decides to schedule a full spa day for tomorrow.

After a quiet dinner, I fall asleep in the bed. Nature’s calling wakes me up at midnight. The supervisor remains asleep while I tiptoe into the bathroom. Once finished, my body buries itself underneath the covers. Only the right foot is visible. Staring at the white polished toes brought out a sigh.

Recalling the giggle of the white polish tickling my toes, I feel ashamed of myself. Showing my emotions in public is a sign of immaturity. It makes me vulnerable, which leads to the destruction of independence. The idea of coming out of the proverbial shell scares me. Is this what the boss wanted? A vulnerable employee?

I keep staring at my feet until my eyes become heavier, and I drift off to sleep.

Image by Susan Cipriano from Pixabay