I have been remiss in writing about my pursuit of happiness. Unfortunately, I’ve been entrenched lately in some sad and/or difficult situations. I’m not down-and-out by any means, but I am allowing myself to mourn my Dad’s passing in addition to just being overwhelmed with the speeding freight train that is my life. More the deer-in-the-headlights (of the freight train) scenario. So, in an effort to bring focus to more of the beautiful little things I have going on in my life right now… how’s this?
The other night, as we sat on the couch watching another episode of iCarly on tv — getting cozy and downright huggy as we are known to do — I began to rub my Old Soul’s tender little tootsies. I love my children’s feet. They’re soft and supple and oh so pretty in pink before the harshness of the world begins to rear it’s ugly head as wear and tear on my innocent little children and their beautiful and unsuspecting little feet. The Old Soul loved the massage! She oohed and ahhed and raved about how good it felt. (Mind you, I’ve rubbed her feet before, she was just wallowing in it this time.)
Everyone loves a foot massage… right? I’ve had a few pedicures in my life and they are nothing short of glorious as the pedicurist massages the foot and calf all the way up to the knees. But I have a confession to make: I’m a little uncomfortable with the service aspect of this act. I know this is my problem! I know this is how she makes her living but somehow it always feels a bit too personal and awkward for me. (Don’t even get me started on full body massage.) Paying a stranger to rub my feet feels just a little weird… but I’m willing to try and get over it by scheduling a visit to the nail salon with my Old Soul so she can partake in the heavenly practice of a pedicure.
Though (sadly) Sarge and I do not partake of the spousal foot massage ritual, two of my sisters (for anonymity sake, I won’t tell you which two LOL) and their hubbies have been known to indulge. As a matter of fact, I’ve heard tell that many hubbies rub their wive’s feet… and vice versa if they’re lucky. Really lucky! LOL. (Did you know most pedicurists won’t do men’s feet? It’s true! My Sis, SIL and I tried to purchase pedi gift certs for the men in our lives but couldn’t find anyone who would do it!)
So how does a foot massage translate to happiness?
For me, there’s a sort of biblical aspect to the act. I absolutely LOVE to wash and massage My Boys’ feet when bathing them. (The Old Soul’s grown out of the bath so she’s out of luck.) But I still get to hold and clean their chunky little toes with that endearing space between the big toe and pointer — “sandal toe” is common in children with Down syndrome — and it just makes my heart glad! No, I don’t have a foot fetish! The act of washing my childrens’ feet is symbolic TO ME. An act of love, humbling myself to my very own children of God, just as Mary Magdalene humbled herself by washing Jesus’ feet (though I don’t use my hair… too short!). A little weird, I know, but the feeling and emotion is there every time I do it. Did I mention I LOVE to do it. And, My Boys apparently LOVE it too! When I say, “whose feet am I washing?” 4 little feet poke out of the bath bubbles to a duet of “mine!”
So yesterday, as I sat on the couch trying to get some computer work done, my beautiful Old Soul came over and began rubbing my feet. Ever so gently, she massaged and asked me if it felt good. It was heaven… and so personal — a true act of love. Beautiful!
Then she smelled her hands and said, “hey, they don’t even smell!”
Foot Note (get it?): On the foot, I think thumbkin is really the pointer, given he’s not opposable. Besides, there’s no way in heck you could point with that 2nd toe so it’s the big guy’s job on my foot, anyway. But be careful because intense pointing with the big toe (aka thumbkin/pointer) has been known to cause cramping LOL. That makes the 2nd toe, formerly known as pointer, the foot’s tall girl (at least on me). The thing is, that 2nd toe, now tall girl is also the ring man on the foot which leaves the 3rd and 4th toes in command — formerly known as tall girl and ring man — sort of nameless and useless. We need to come up with names for them… maybe Tom and Harry (skipping the middle guy in that trio because this is a g-rated blog). By the time you get to pinky you’ve entirely run out of names and jobs which is OK ’cause pinky’s always hiding behind the other toes anyway… So the only important toes are the foot’s thumbkin/pointer and tall girl/ring man and the others are just there for…. What? Balance? I think my toes are having an identity crises… or maybe it’s just me?