Today’s decision is almost a non-issue.
And when I say that today’s decision is almost a non-issue, it means that there’s really no question whatsoever as to which choice most of the male WFME readers will choose. Faced with having a nail painlessly lodged into our heads (and a really cool story to tell) or having to face the humiliation of getting a pedicure on a weekly basis…well…
We men know which one to choose.
I will come straight out and tell you that I had a horrific pedicure experience recently. I was blindly forced into this “right of passage” by being convinced that it would be the most amazing experience I would have ever had. There would be massages given to me by women, who would be fawning all over me, rubbing oils and creams over my body parts. Shoulder massages, neck rubs and attention the likes of which I had never had before.
Yes, I’d rather have a nail lodged in my head.
The experience of having a pedicure is more like a scene out of an Amnesty International warning pamphlet. You are made to sit in an uncomfortable position for minutes on end, with your native language nowhere to be heard. Then, like a spy with sensitive and classified information, sharp metallic objects are jammed into sensitive parts of your body, followed by acidic oils, creams that feel like they have shards of glass peppered throughout… And that’s way before the manhandling even begins.
A nail in the head is a swift, quick shot — and then it’s over.
Women will disagree almost immediately. They will rave about the orgasmic-like pedicure as if it is their own personal Nirvana. Many are addicted to the stuff and swear up and down that without such an experience they would be lost in this world. And some of the elite few will never cease to convince you (like a cult, per se) that if you just “try it once” your eyes will be opened immediately to the majesty that is, um, someone jamming sharp objects under your toenails.
But worse than the sharp metallic scrapers and the cuticle-pushing rods and the sandpaper like creams and the acidic, skin-burning liquids is the fact that while I am being subjected to an experience that would consistute a nightmare if I suddenly woke up from a dream that resembled a similar situation — is that everyone around me is talking about me in a different language.
Trust me when I tell you that I know when people are talking about me.
And as I look around that stripmalled, dry-walled cookie-cutter foot-punishing mind-freak, I can tell you that the idea of having someone with a nail gun rush up to my side and quickly shoot a nail into the left quadrant of my head seems way more humane than anything a weekly pedicure would entail.
But that’s just me.