Outing Shouting

Yesterday, because my mom was in town for a visit and available to watch Baby Girl, I skedaddled my booty out of the house long enough to get a much-wanted pedicure. 'Cause if there's just one beauty thing I need in my life to keep me feeling put-together, it's a regular pedicure. Blame it on the ballerina in me. I'm still scarred from the time I went to my pediatrician as a teenager after I'd bruised my large toenail by being en pointe for hours on end, and her only diagnosis was to always, always keep my nasty toe nails painted (she said this with her stank face on, as she gazed down at my toe nail that would eventually fall off). True, yet tragic story. And in retrospect, very sound advice ;) So it's no surprise that a pedicure was the first activity I left my beloved child for, just a couple weeks after she was born. But yesterday, as I thankfully left the house feeling much calmer than I had during that inaugural solo outing, I found myself thinking back on that day....

Baby Girl was only about 16 days old and smack dab in the midst of a very unpredictable few days that involved some cluster feeding and some painful-tummy crying jags. But I knew my hubby was more than capable of holding down the fort for 45 minutes to an hour--just not capable of whipping out a mammary gland in the event that Baby Girl just couldn't wait to eat until I returned.

So I carefully planned my departure to immediately follow a feeding. I burped her, punted her off, and practically gunned it in reverse out of the garage and out of the neighborhood in the direction of the salon. Of course, it was a Saturday, so I knew there'd be other patrons with the exact same plan, but I'd never had to wait at said salon before, so I crossed my fingers, took my chances, and tried not to run over any pedestrians as I swerved like a madwoman through the parking lot.

Alas, the pedicure fairy was not in my corner.

The second I parked, flung myself out of my car, and started power-walking toward the front door, I noticed two young women also headed for the door. They were spry, thin, cute, bubbly, blonde, chatting happily in their annoying adorable little strapless, perky, summer sundresses. In short, they were everything this postpartum mother rocking disposable nursing pads, ill-fitting, breastfeeding-accomodating clothes, and lanky, pony-tailed hair was most certainly not on that fine Saturday. But their annoying cuteness was not what sent my heart racing and my forehead into a clammy sweat when I spotted them. It was the fact that the three of us were about two seconds from meeting at the door and doing that awkward dance of: you go in first; no, you go in first. Well, clearly, these two couldn't see the desperation in my wild eyes, because when we intersected at the door, they helped themselves into the air-conditioning first, and I had to trail in after.

To my credit, I muffled my cursing, and at least attempted to curb the evil thoughts I was subliminally launching their way...until I stepped up to the front desk after they'd been shown to their oh-so-comfy, vibrating chairs, and was told: I'm sorry. Those were the last two seats. There's going to be about a 45 minute wait, if that's okay.

If that's okay? If. That's. Okay???!!!

No, it was most certainly NOT okay, I informed the man at the front desk. I had a NEWBORN at home and could definitely NOT wait 45 minutes. Unfortunately, he really didn't care that I had a newborn and couldn't wait. Instead, he just "kindly" informed me that perhaps I should make an appointment next time.

An appointment??? I can hardly plan out the Lean Cuisine I'm gonna cook for lunch on any given weekday 'cause I can't make that four to five-minute microwavable commitment that far in advance these days. Let alone the commitment for a scheduled pedicure. As if.

Suffice it to say, my muffled cursing at the perky, strapless-dressed blondes completely exploded in the confines of my car as I expelled quite a large amount of suppressed anger whilst trying to figure out my next move. I called them all sorts of unkind things that rhymed with booker, chore and tank, and managed to call both my husband and my mother as I gunned my car to the next closest salon, just so I could continue my rant about the grave injustices of this world.

For the record, I did make it to another salon that day, and I did eventually enjoy my pedicure--as soon as my blood pressure had a chance to come back down from the roof. But I learned that lovely Saturday that my time--especially my time away from Baby Girl--was far more precious than I ever thought it could be before she showed up in my previously lackluster life.

I suppose I also learned that I'm a bit of a rage-a-holic.

Gonna have to work on that.

I'm a work in progress. As I suppose most new mothers are.

Happy weekend, everybody.