I'm smiling as I reflect on my still green toenails. They are green not because of a misplaced step and toe-stubbing or some industrial accident. They are green because I paid a small Asian woman to make them so.

Let's back up a little. It started with one of Judy and my semi-weekly phone conversations with our friend Nikki. She had mentioned having a girls' day out to celebrate her birthday with another friend, Karin, in a few days. I had casually mentioned that I was off that day as well, and Nikki invited me to join. Being game to try anything at least once, I soon found myself southbound to Parker.

Karin and I arrived at Nikki's house before she had finished attending to that day's myriad responsibilities of a single mother of three boys. We whiled away the time waiting for Nikki's return by discussing the sudden and intense conspiracy of all the mechanical things in and about Karin's home. They had recently been making her life, if not the seventh level of hell, at least a well-appointed foyer. She had pulled up in a loaner car decrying the non-standardized placement of accessories in various makes of automobiles and declared she was thereby forbidding the falling of snow or night. The fact that she was at least able to drive something was a slight consolation. She had nearly had to call an exorcist to rid her new washer of the demons that made it continually regurgitate water onto her laundry room floor. A typical phone conversation with Karin during those trying days consisted mostly of disgusted grunting and a liberal sprinkling of f-bombs.

Soon, Nikki arrived and we set out to make the most of her rare lack of responsibility for the next three hours. We made the drive that would, on a warmer day, be a brisk walk and ended up at darkly inviting nail spa called Green Tea Nails. It immediately warmed the cockles of my heart. I didn't even know my heart had cockles. It was filled with a soft warm light, calm relaxing music, and a chick-flick was silently moving along on the flat screen television mounted high on the wall opposite the pedicure chairs. I could feel my man-crush on Brad Pitt flaring as heretofore untapped reservoirs of estrogen crested their banks and flooded through my system.

We each took a seat from among the six or so pedicure chairs and the diminutive techs set to work on our well-worn feet. It started with a luxurious soak. I put my feet in the warm, churning water and started to investigate the remote control for my chair. It came with varying degrees of massage and was also heated with the touch of a button. As the chair massaged my back and warmed my legs, the nail tech massaged my feet and all stress melted away. I picked up a magazine that boldly asserted it could give me tips for achieving the most fulfilling orgasms of my life and made small talk with my friends while the tech clipped away unnecessary skin like so many bonsai branches.

She then took an abrasive piece of something or other and started to slough the dead skin from the bottoms of my feet. She grabbed another one while heatedly muttering what I assumed to be Asian cuss words. Later, she finally finished with her third and final abrasive tool which vaguely resembled some sort of hardened lava and moved on to an exfoliating leg massage. She applied the gritty material and masterfully massaged my calves and feet and then started to lightly slap them after rinsing them off. Just as I started to think that one typically is expected to pay extra for abuse like this, I noticed I was starting to squirm in my chair.

The intensity of the heat had been slowly, nearly imperceptibly, rising. Apparently lacking any kind of thermostat to regulate the temperature, the chair was creating a sensation in my drawers akin to jalapeno jelly having been liberally applied to my newly chapped starfish. I frantically fumbled with the controls while imagining my eggs being methodically transformed from sunny up to over hard. Mercifully, the heat started to subside as the nail tech applied the sparkly green polish I had chosen.

After having rolled and wadded paper towel expertly laced through my toes, I was fitted with temporary thong sandals and skittered over to the tables where we would be getting our manicures done. I was pretty sure the girl doing my manicure had the hots for me. I assume this because the bottom of my soaking dish was covered with some kind of marbles or pebbles, and my love of small distracting ADHD enabling materials is legendary. Nikki and Karin each assured me, however, that they had these items in their dishes as well. This lead me to the logical conclusion that either I was mistaken, or that Nikki and Karin's techs were, in fact, lesbians.

After natural nail bed mimicking coats of a pleasing, lightly pink polish and clear coat were applied to my finger nails, we adjourned to the drying table. Nikki was telling us how enthralled Spencer had been with the newest addition to their family, a manic kitten named Disco. Being new to feminine recreational beautification rituals, I had assumed bagging on males was a part of the modus operandi. Therefore, I stated, "Typical male; all about the pu$$y." Silence followed. Assuming Nikki had not heard I started to repeat, "Typ..."

"Yes, I heard you retard. I'm just ignoring you," she responded. Karin had missed the entire loop of conversation attempting to ascertain the extent of damage caused to her new cell phone by the dunking she had inadvertently subjected it to earlier during her foot soak.

Soon enough, with all nails dried, we reshod ourselves and trooped out into the flurry that had just begun. Karin hurried home to ensure all was well with the progeny from whom she had been so recently and aquatically quarantined. As Nikki and I shared a ride to her son's school to pick him up, I thought to myself, "I can see why women like this."