Best foot forward

Seriously, Higgins? Another story about your feet?

Yes, dear readers. Yes.

I turned sixty this year, and despite all commands not to give me any gifts, links to charities if someone felt compelled to spend money, one friend did indeed buy me something. Several things, actually.

A bag of foot care products. An elegant wood-handled pumice. Little plastic booties filled with moisturizing goo to make one’s feet less hoof-like. Moisturizer. More plastic booties, like those masks that temporarily make you look like Hannibal Lecter but for your feet. She knows me well, this friend.

My sister was staying over, and we drank a little wine and decided to put on a pair of those booties and got to talking and before you knew it, two hours had passed, and we forgot to take off the booties. And whoops—these were the “gently exfoliating foot masks,” recommended time: half an hour. “Our feet will be so soft, our husbands won’t recognize us,” I said.

“I’m so excited,” my sister said.

Alas, several days passed, and there was no gentle exfoliation, no noticeable softness in our leathery goat-like feet. “Nothing,” my sister said on a phone call.

“Well, these things are all hype,” said I. “I’ve been pumicing every day, and maybe my feet are a little smoother. Otherwise, nothing here, either.”

And then, about five days after the Night of Wine and Plastic Booties, I went to yoga. As the steam and heat increased and we did vigorous transitions from one pose to the next, I noticed a whitish smear on my light blue mat towel. What could it be? A bleach stain? Some Buttercup fur?

“Make sure you can see your toes,” said the instructor. I checked, and yes, there were my toes…suddenly shaggy with dead skin. Dear God. It looked like I had stepped in shredded coconut. I was exfoliating, all right, and not gently. Dramatically. I discreetly tried to rub my feet against the towel, hoping to get rid of the excess skin.

As I bent over for rag doll pose, I peeled off the largest flap of myself, which was hanging down over my big toenail, and tucked it under a corner of the towel.

Unfortunately, due to my excessive sweating, I always only wear black to yoga. Suddenly, I noticed that bits of white, white skin clung to my leggings and shirt. And my feet were practically spewing chunks of skin onto my mat. “No one will notice,” I lied to myself. There were three rows of yoga students that day—a full house. I was in the middle row, and when we did Upward Dog, my shaggy feet were just inches away from the face of the woman behind me. “She’s not looking at your feet,” I told myself as I stared at the feet in front of my face. (By the way, I went easy on you with this picture. Google images for "foot peel" and you'll know it's true.)

Then the teacher—the super athletic and naturally beautiful teacher everyone adores— came over to adjust my pose. Go away, Kate! I mentally hissed. Of all days to correct my pose…I prayed she didn’t look down at my mat, where evidence of my sloughing was all too clear. “Kristan, just turn the outside of your feet…”

Her voice trailed off. Our eyes met. I didn’t offer an explanation, too aware that if I so much as twitched my lips, I would laugh uncontrollably and disrupt the entire class. Kate moved on to the next student. I was once a favorite of hers. Ah, well. I soldiered on, at once pleased and horrified at the efficacy of the gently exfoliating foot mask.

At the end of class, as I lay in Corpse pose on top of my skin bits, I planned my speedy exit. As soon as we said namaste, I sat up, brushed myself off and folded my mat towel to contain all the bits of me. Then I got the hell out of there.

Once in my car, I called my sister to tell her that the foot masks DID work, quite well, in fact, and we wheezed with laughter. “Steam your feet and send pictures,” I commanded. I wore socks to yoga for the rest of the week. My teacher and I have never spoken of it. Then again, I’ve been kind of avoiding her class.

Thanks for my birthday present, Jen! It worked just great.