The Kitchen Is Closed by Sandra Butler

Author:Sandra Butler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sandra Butler
Published: 2022-06-15T00:00:00+00:00

Five

Reports of the pandemic’s spread have become more ominous, and the projections of how long we might have to quarantine have lengthened. Straightening my arthritic shoulders, I decide to do what my mother called “taking myself in hand.” I take myself in both hand and foot and prepare to give myself a pedicure, both affirming and decorating my body.

I have pedicures during the summer months because my toes stick out of my sandals and I feel attractive when they’re painted. Although no one sees them but me, I continue to embellish them in an ever-changing range of colors all year. Through more critical and evaluative eyes, it’s a preposterous indulgence, but when I take off my crew socks at night or look down in the shower and see them lustrous in subtle shades of mauve or taupe, I feel quite lovely. From the ankles down anyway.

The first problem of this self-directed pedicure presents itself at once. I don’t actually know how to paint my own toes. I can’t bend my knees enough to see what’s going on with them. I polish my glasses, hoping they will somehow serve to magnify them, realize they won’t, go to my drawer, and retrieve my actual magnifying glass and inspect my toes. Not good. Not good at all.

They’re entirely overgrown, kind of like my hair, but I won’t even entertain the thought of doing anything to my hair. That requires skill. Toenails just require cutting and maybe pushing the cuticles around a bit. I can do that. In fact, I’ll put some red polish on my toes just to brighten up the landscape a little bit. And while I’m at it, I’ll push the cuticles on my fingernails around as well.

I begin the process with foot cream to soften up my unattended skin using an Israeli product from across the Green Line in the occupied territories, also known as Palestine. It was a gift from someone who didn’t know better. I haven’t wanted to use it and feel guilty about even having it, but not guilty enough to throw it away. After all, the sin of purchasing it has already been committed. My self-protective analysis in place, I smooth the politically corrupt cream into my feet and rub it in. Why have I waited so long to do this? I wonder. It feels splendid. I massage until my feet are like a baby’s behind. Well, not really, but certainly softer than they have been in a long time.

Becoming more focused, I put vitamin E oil on my toes and start pushing my cuticles from here to there, not able to see what I’m doing, just making little circles and hoping the cuticles are getting the message.

Now for the cutting. I start small, with my little toe, and painstakingly position the nail clippers over the toenail and press. Bingo! Somewhere on my carpet resides my toenail. Since I don’t want my bedroom carpet littered with parts of my body, I place a towel under my feet, something I probably should have done from the start.

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