Change

No matter our age, we carry with us our younger selves. My younger me often felt overwhelmingly guilty and remorsefully apologetic, for no good reason. I fight it every chance I get. You'd think I'd know better by now.


Yesterday I had a mani/pedi at a spa resort. I was looking forward to an afternoon of quiet pampering and solitude. With enthusiastic anticipation I checked in. Comfortably seated in a plush sofa, I put my cell on mute and waited my turn. Hearing my name I was led into a room with manicurists busily tending to their clients, filled with quiet whispers. Irena introduced herself to me, pretty, with an exotic accent. I asked her if she has Angel Food. She looks confused, I explain, the polish, not the cake. "No," she replies and tells me to look on the shelf behind her. Having trouble finding a color, she impatiently takes a few bottles from her drawer. I choose one I know is not right, berate myself for being indecisive, yet find myself apologizing. The manicure commences, small talk ensues. She is from Kiev and has a son. She continues filing, and before I can mention the lack of a hand massage she begins painting my nails. I notice a black spot on one nail, point out the speck, to which she contorts her face and continues polishing as though I were speaking in a foreign tongue. I mention it again, this time she begrudgingly takes the polish off and before I can stop myself I apologize. What is wrong with me?



We move on to the pedicure room. My frustration mounting I am directed to a chair, the tub humming and whirring, it's suds bubbling over. Irena motions me to sit, but then quickly disappears. I ask an attendant nearby if a hand massage is part of a standard manicure, hesitantly she nods her head yes. I blurt out that I did not get a hand massage. In a low whisper she advices me to tell the front desk. Soaking my feet in disappointment, Irena arrives back and I stare at the magazine pages on my lap. I am complicit; allowing for such poor service. If I lodge a complaint will she loose her job, be thrown out on the streets, penniless, with a son to support and a family in Kiev waiting for checks to pay the rent? The cursory pedicure over she puts little rubber disposable sandals on my feet and ushers me off. I scuffle out to the lobby. As I wait my turn to pay I flip back and forth, like a butterfly trying to right itself. "How was your treatment?" comes a voice from behind the desk. Before I can stop myself a different me emerges. "Disappointed," I firmly reply. Walking out to my car I hold a coupon for services not yet rendered, start the car and head back home.