Among the advice I get from friends, a prevalent theme tends to be taking care of myself. It's not just the exercising and eating right and trying to live a healthy lifestyle, but the tendency I seem to have to try to take care of others before myself.
I also find myself uncomfortable with the idea of anything that hints at decadence. For these purposes, let's define decadence as doing something simply because it feels good, especially if it isn't an absolute necessity for life. Extra decadence points are awarded if you are paying someone else to do something that you could actually do yourself just as well (or at least acceptably.)
So when a friend said to me, "You should do something nice for yourself. Get a mani-pedi!" comfort zone flags shot up all over my psyche.
Never mind the fact that this is something that a lot of men in our society would never do. The friend who made this suggestion was a man - a younger, more successful man - who will come to play in later challenges.
The issue is that this is something that I had never done, and would demand that I spend time and money on something that would benefit no one but myself. And there is the matter of not knowing the procedure. When I get my haircut, I go in to Bishop's, sign in, wait a while and then tell the stylist what I want. That’s familiar territory. But any time you try something new, you run the risk of embarrassment from the get go if you fumble the protocols of the institution.
I figured that, as comfort zone challenges go, this would be a good way to get my feet wet.
Literally.
LACE is a salon in the Pearl District. It's probably more expensive than the myriad of nail salons in Northwest Portland, but I figured this was an experience I wanted to enjoy, and unlike the salons nearer my apartment, LACE didn't look like it belonged in a strip mall in Clackamas. Besides, it's not like I was going to be making a real regular habit of this, so why not spend a little money, right?
I spent way too much time strategizing my visit. What do I say? What do I ask for? If no one is at the desk, do I seek someone out or just wait to be noticed? Should I tell them this is my first time, or would the condition of my hands and feet pretty much take care of that? Should I ask questions or just put myself in their hands? What options do I have, and what questions will they ask that I'll need answers to?
Will I make a fool of myself?
This leads us to a central comfort zone issue. In new situations, particularly social ones, we tend to anticipate the reactions of others to our actions. In our minds, we try to formulate the perfect overture that will elicit a desired response. It is, essentially, an attempt at control of an uncontrollable element in our lives.
Shy people - and yes, I will put myself in this group - take this activity a step further. A shy person will imagine every negative response to their approach. An entire social interaction is played out in a shy person's mind before it even begins. And it NEVER goes well. So with social failure a foregone conclusion, why take the additional step of actually going through with it? It's so much easier to just live with the imagined embarrassment in our safe, private little mental space than it is to actually risk experiencing the real thing.
So until actually walked in the door of LACE, I had no idea what I was going to do or say. I had run several options through my mind, and had pretty much decided but still had no idea what the response would be, or even if my chosen opener was appropriate.
At the front desk, just inside the door, a woman was on the phone taking an appointment for later in the day. My planned overture flew out of my head. Damn! Should I have called ahead? The signage on the door clearly said "Walk-ins Welcome", but maybe it would have been easier to set this up in advance. It certainly would have made it harder to back out (although that option was quickly fading as I stood in the doorway, feeling conspicuous and out of place.) There were only three customers in the salon - including one other guy. When the woman put down the phone and asked "Can I help you?" I cleared my throat and stammered (yes, I stammered) "Can I get in for a mani-pedi?" or words to that effect. She looked around the shop, then down at her book. "In about fifteen minutes. Do you want to wait, or come back?" Wanting to minimize the opportunities to change my mind, I decided to wait.
She invited me to sit, and I made my first faux pas. Not seeing the small bench by the door, I followed her into the salon thinking she was leading me to wait in one of the salon chairs.
Laughing, she sent me back to the bench.
I sat for about twenty minutes, during which time several women came in, with appointments for manicures, pedicures, eyebrow waxing and the like. The salon started to look busy. I tried not to imagine the eyes of the incoming customers on me, and took comfort in the presence of the one man in the chair already, assuring me that yes, this is something men do.
In time I was escorted back to the station right next to the man in the chair. (Was this the guys corner? Did they purposefully group men together for mutual support?) He was well into his pedicure, a towel wrapped around his feet, reading a newspaper. I decided not to strike up a conversation.
We don't do that. Not even in barber shops.
As I sat waiting, with my feet in the soothing massage bath, an attendant showed me a remote control for the chair, encouraging me to try the chair's massage options. Ow. Some might appreciate this feature, but large, hard plastic balls digging indiscriminately into my back only increased my tension. If I'm white-knuckling the arm rest, I'm not relaxing!
This actually provided me with a valuable tool. I knew that relaxation was supposed to be part of this experience. I also suspected it might, at times, take some conscious thought on my part. I discovered that my right hand's grip on the arm rest of the chair provided excellent biofeedback on my level of calm. I would find myself using this reference several time over the next hour or so.
Shortly after this, a girl came and the real work began. Now, I'd always imagined that a pedicure was primarily maintenance and grooming of the nails, so it kind of surprised me how much attention was given the rest of the foot - up to the shin! My heel calluses have been a problem over the years, so I really enjoyed the vigorous scrubbing and found myself looking forward to not having heels that I could use to scratch my shins.
Of course, she did start with my nails, applying lotion and grooming the actual top of the nail more than I thought was possible. And there was the trimming. As she got to the thickened keratin on my big toe, it honestly looked as if she were considering the need for safety glasses!
As I watched, I often found myself gripping that arm rest. I willed myself to relax. It got easier, but the need was still there.
I did have something of a preview as the man in the chair next to me enjoyed his foot bath and massage. Okay, that looked good. Then the technician brought polish over and offered him a couple of colors to choose from.
I felt a sudden confusion and panic. Wait. Was color a standard procedure? Was this a decision I was going to have to make? When was this going to come up in the conversation? Once again, my unfamiliarity with the protocols gave me a moment's pause, and my grip on the chair tightened again.
My technician left and the owner of the shop took over for my massage. I found myself relaxing more easily - although in the back of my mind I was still trying to figure out what to say when I was offered polish. I really didn't want colorful toes that screamed "Hey look! I just had a pedicure!" My neighbor had chosen a dark blue. Was this an appropriately masculine choice? Was there such a thing?
In the end, she just asked if I wanted them shiny or buff. And with that, I realized that polish was optional. She easily left my nails with a subtle shine.
And that was that. Suddenly my feet were clean, soft and dry. The foot bath was drained. "All done!"she said. I suddenly realized that my earlier stammer had been unclear. I awkwardly pointed at my fingernails and said, "How about...?" "Oh, you wanted a manicure? One moment." In five minutes I was at a table with the previous technician, giving the same attention to my hands.
During the pedicure, it had been easy to avoid conversation. Trying to talk to your technician while they worked on your feet would actually seem a bit awkward. A manicure, however, is a bit more intimate. After all, a woman was holding my hand, albeit in a semi-clinical way. It seemed rude to just ignore her. We didn't talk a lot, and when we did it was so much in the realm of small talk that I can't remember what we said, but it was a something of a relief. Even a rudimentary conversation turned the experience into a normal, human exchange rather than a decadent extravagance. Especially when I finally learned that her name was Hannah.
Tipping has always been awkward for me. It's hard for me to do without feeling like a medieval lord bestowing largesse on an peasant. But I do know that those in the service industry rely on tips, so I do it. The charge for my service was $40. I paid, and broke another twenty. I tipped Hannah $10.
Her reaction told me I may have over-tipped. But after all she had gone through with my extremities that afternoon, I was okay with that.
Besides, my hands and feet really did look and feel better than they had. I hadn't really expected a tangible, physical improvement in how they felt, but I admit they felt refreshed. And so did I. I’d had a new experience, and had negotiated new interactions.
Mostly, I had placed value on myself. I had taken time for something that was really just for my comfort, relaxation and well-being. I had done it deliberately. And somehow, I felt… improved.
It’s been said that before you can truly be loved, you need to love yourself.
Maybe this is a step in the right direction.
I also find myself uncomfortable with the idea of anything that hints at decadence. For these purposes, let's define decadence as doing something simply because it feels good, especially if it isn't an absolute necessity for life. Extra decadence points are awarded if you are paying someone else to do something that you could actually do yourself just as well (or at least acceptably.)
So when a friend said to me, "You should do something nice for yourself. Get a mani-pedi!" comfort zone flags shot up all over my psyche.
Never mind the fact that this is something that a lot of men in our society would never do. The friend who made this suggestion was a man - a younger, more successful man - who will come to play in later challenges.
The issue is that this is something that I had never done, and would demand that I spend time and money on something that would benefit no one but myself. And there is the matter of not knowing the procedure. When I get my haircut, I go in to Bishop's, sign in, wait a while and then tell the stylist what I want. That’s familiar territory. But any time you try something new, you run the risk of embarrassment from the get go if you fumble the protocols of the institution.
I figured that, as comfort zone challenges go, this would be a good way to get my feet wet.
Literally.
LACE is a salon in the Pearl District. It's probably more expensive than the myriad of nail salons in Northwest Portland, but I figured this was an experience I wanted to enjoy, and unlike the salons nearer my apartment, LACE didn't look like it belonged in a strip mall in Clackamas. Besides, it's not like I was going to be making a real regular habit of this, so why not spend a little money, right?
I spent way too much time strategizing my visit. What do I say? What do I ask for? If no one is at the desk, do I seek someone out or just wait to be noticed? Should I tell them this is my first time, or would the condition of my hands and feet pretty much take care of that? Should I ask questions or just put myself in their hands? What options do I have, and what questions will they ask that I'll need answers to?
Will I make a fool of myself?
This leads us to a central comfort zone issue. In new situations, particularly social ones, we tend to anticipate the reactions of others to our actions. In our minds, we try to formulate the perfect overture that will elicit a desired response. It is, essentially, an attempt at control of an uncontrollable element in our lives.
Shy people - and yes, I will put myself in this group - take this activity a step further. A shy person will imagine every negative response to their approach. An entire social interaction is played out in a shy person's mind before it even begins. And it NEVER goes well. So with social failure a foregone conclusion, why take the additional step of actually going through with it? It's so much easier to just live with the imagined embarrassment in our safe, private little mental space than it is to actually risk experiencing the real thing.
So until actually walked in the door of LACE, I had no idea what I was going to do or say. I had run several options through my mind, and had pretty much decided but still had no idea what the response would be, or even if my chosen opener was appropriate.
At the front desk, just inside the door, a woman was on the phone taking an appointment for later in the day. My planned overture flew out of my head. Damn! Should I have called ahead? The signage on the door clearly said "Walk-ins Welcome", but maybe it would have been easier to set this up in advance. It certainly would have made it harder to back out (although that option was quickly fading as I stood in the doorway, feeling conspicuous and out of place.) There were only three customers in the salon - including one other guy. When the woman put down the phone and asked "Can I help you?" I cleared my throat and stammered (yes, I stammered) "Can I get in for a mani-pedi?" or words to that effect. She looked around the shop, then down at her book. "In about fifteen minutes. Do you want to wait, or come back?" Wanting to minimize the opportunities to change my mind, I decided to wait.
She invited me to sit, and I made my first faux pas. Not seeing the small bench by the door, I followed her into the salon thinking she was leading me to wait in one of the salon chairs.
Laughing, she sent me back to the bench.
I sat for about twenty minutes, during which time several women came in, with appointments for manicures, pedicures, eyebrow waxing and the like. The salon started to look busy. I tried not to imagine the eyes of the incoming customers on me, and took comfort in the presence of the one man in the chair already, assuring me that yes, this is something men do.
In time I was escorted back to the station right next to the man in the chair. (Was this the guys corner? Did they purposefully group men together for mutual support?) He was well into his pedicure, a towel wrapped around his feet, reading a newspaper. I decided not to strike up a conversation.
We don't do that. Not even in barber shops.
As I sat waiting, with my feet in the soothing massage bath, an attendant showed me a remote control for the chair, encouraging me to try the chair's massage options. Ow. Some might appreciate this feature, but large, hard plastic balls digging indiscriminately into my back only increased my tension. If I'm white-knuckling the arm rest, I'm not relaxing!
This actually provided me with a valuable tool. I knew that relaxation was supposed to be part of this experience. I also suspected it might, at times, take some conscious thought on my part. I discovered that my right hand's grip on the arm rest of the chair provided excellent biofeedback on my level of calm. I would find myself using this reference several time over the next hour or so.
Shortly after this, a girl came and the real work began. Now, I'd always imagined that a pedicure was primarily maintenance and grooming of the nails, so it kind of surprised me how much attention was given the rest of the foot - up to the shin! My heel calluses have been a problem over the years, so I really enjoyed the vigorous scrubbing and found myself looking forward to not having heels that I could use to scratch my shins.
Of course, she did start with my nails, applying lotion and grooming the actual top of the nail more than I thought was possible. And there was the trimming. As she got to the thickened keratin on my big toe, it honestly looked as if she were considering the need for safety glasses!
As I watched, I often found myself gripping that arm rest. I willed myself to relax. It got easier, but the need was still there.
I did have something of a preview as the man in the chair next to me enjoyed his foot bath and massage. Okay, that looked good. Then the technician brought polish over and offered him a couple of colors to choose from.
I felt a sudden confusion and panic. Wait. Was color a standard procedure? Was this a decision I was going to have to make? When was this going to come up in the conversation? Once again, my unfamiliarity with the protocols gave me a moment's pause, and my grip on the chair tightened again.
My technician left and the owner of the shop took over for my massage. I found myself relaxing more easily - although in the back of my mind I was still trying to figure out what to say when I was offered polish. I really didn't want colorful toes that screamed "Hey look! I just had a pedicure!" My neighbor had chosen a dark blue. Was this an appropriately masculine choice? Was there such a thing?
In the end, she just asked if I wanted them shiny or buff. And with that, I realized that polish was optional. She easily left my nails with a subtle shine.
And that was that. Suddenly my feet were clean, soft and dry. The foot bath was drained. "All done!"she said. I suddenly realized that my earlier stammer had been unclear. I awkwardly pointed at my fingernails and said, "How about...?" "Oh, you wanted a manicure? One moment." In five minutes I was at a table with the previous technician, giving the same attention to my hands.
During the pedicure, it had been easy to avoid conversation. Trying to talk to your technician while they worked on your feet would actually seem a bit awkward. A manicure, however, is a bit more intimate. After all, a woman was holding my hand, albeit in a semi-clinical way. It seemed rude to just ignore her. We didn't talk a lot, and when we did it was so much in the realm of small talk that I can't remember what we said, but it was a something of a relief. Even a rudimentary conversation turned the experience into a normal, human exchange rather than a decadent extravagance. Especially when I finally learned that her name was Hannah.
Tipping has always been awkward for me. It's hard for me to do without feeling like a medieval lord bestowing largesse on an peasant. But I do know that those in the service industry rely on tips, so I do it. The charge for my service was $40. I paid, and broke another twenty. I tipped Hannah $10.
Her reaction told me I may have over-tipped. But after all she had gone through with my extremities that afternoon, I was okay with that.
Besides, my hands and feet really did look and feel better than they had. I hadn't really expected a tangible, physical improvement in how they felt, but I admit they felt refreshed. And so did I. I’d had a new experience, and had negotiated new interactions.
Mostly, I had placed value on myself. I had taken time for something that was really just for my comfort, relaxation and well-being. I had done it deliberately. And somehow, I felt… improved.
It’s been said that before you can truly be loved, you need to love yourself.
Maybe this is a step in the right direction.