I recently got a pedicure, which was the final movement in a symphony that began two decades ago when The Duchess asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday.
As I have always been a man in love with sitting at home in the dark, I told her “Nothing.” I wanted a day to just write, listen to music, and read books. I thought this was reasonable. The Duchess thought I was kidding. When the great day arrived and I emerged from my sleeping chamber swathed in a velvet bathrobe, scratching myself in intimate ways, The Duchess greeted me in her Jeff’s Birthday Adventure Outfit and politely inquired as to what I wanted to do. Upon being informed that we’d already discussed this and I thought we were doing nothing, she became confused.
The Duchess: Nothing.
Me: Yup.
The Duchess: Fascinating.
Me: Yup.
The Duchess: You’re the weirdest husband ever.
For years, she refused to believe that I might actually wish to do just stay home on my birthday. Her own birthdays were imperial affairs, usually involving travel and sumptuous dinners; they were events that required planning and expense. And for years she attempted to force my own birthday celebrations into the same pattern, and I went along mainly because it made her happy. Then, this year, she suddenly announced that she finally believed me and that we would, therefore, make no plans for my birthday.
You Can’t Always Get What You Want
I was elated, but when the day actually arrived I had second thoughts. I’ve never had the courage of my convictions, and I began to contemplate my poor wife sitting around the house bored to tears because I’d insisted on a Day of Nothing.
The thing was, I made the initial request back when I was still working a day job and trying to cram writing time in wherever I could find it. The idea of having a whole day to just to work on a novel or story was incredibly exciting. But these days I’m a freelance writer, and so I have a lot more flexibility. If I want to work on a novel at 10AM while wearing a top hat and cape and nothing else, I sure can. So carving out a birthday for myself isn’t as much of a priority. Also, there’s the whole getting older and staring into the void so what’s the point of anything factor, but let that drift.
So, thinking I was about to be nominated as The Best Husband of All Time, I told The Duchess if she wanted to do something on my birthday, I’d be down.
The Duchess: So … after two decades of complaining now you expect me to plan a birthday for you with zero notice.
Me: No … wait … see, this is —
The Duchess: I suppose you want a parade. And elephants. And a big fancy dinner reservation.
Me: No, I was just thinking —
The Duchess: Fine. What do you want to do?
Now here it got tricky, because I knew I had one shot to turn this tanker around and be a hero instead of a jackass. I needed to come up with something astounding, but also easy to arrange. Something that would make The Duchess very excited.
“I want to get a pedicure,” I said.
Touch Me I’m Sick
I don’t think about my feet. Ever. My nail-clipping and other foot grooming is haphazard and inconsistent, and I have callouses on my callouses. But I’ve always been honestly fascinated by the idea of a pedicure. There’s something … fancy about it, like getting a shave at the barber: Something that goes against the grain of my middle class upbringing and makes me feel like a billionaire.
The Duchess almost exploded in excitement, and within seconds the arrangements were made, and about twenty minutes later I was sitting in one of those plush seats with my feet soaking. Everything went swimmingly until we got to the part where they buff off your callouses. I’m kind of ticklish, and The Duchess had a good time watching me for signs I was going to break into hysterics, but I held onto my dignity.
But then the callous scraping went on. And on. At one point, I think the poor girl had to switch out for a fresh scraper, and when they all started speaking in a different language I assumed they were discussing, in wonder, how it was possible that I was at liberty in society.
I mean, it went on. And on.
When it was done, however, I had new feet. They were pink and smooth and we went for a drink to celebrate, and it was definitely the best birthday ever. Except for that time my Future Self time traveled into my bedroom and kicked me in the groin for some crime I’ve yet to commit.