Now that’s some fancy footwork.

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I am a saver.

Some folks would call me a hoarder.

I’d settle for ‘thrifty pack rat.’

Yes, I still have a few t-shirts from when I was about thirteen, but that’s because there’s still good wear in them. And because I just finished reading an article about one hundred ways to reuse, recycle and refashion your old t-shirts. I’m now going to start on a latch hook rug and make a colorful wardrobe of tea cozies for the coffee pot. I’ve also sent out for the free blueprints on how to reupholster your car’s interior. Savvy, eh?

Of course, I do make mistakes in hanging on to a few things that should have been utilized before they became useless. Like everything with an expiration date. But if someone gives me a gift of luscious chocolate or expensive perfume or much needed tooth-whitening strips, I tend to put those bits up on a shelf and glance at them daily with a simple nod and a casual statement of, “Pretty soon, just waiting for the right celebratory moment.”

Then two years later, in a flash of what I consider to be weakness, I unwrap the chocolate to find weevil larvae, I spritz the perfume to find thick, rancid oil and I hunt down the whitening strips only to discover that the dog got to them first because he has a wonky addiction to toothpaste. But his teeth look fabulous, so who am I to complain.

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Last week, I finally got around to cashing in a gift certificate given to me by my mother for my birthday. Not last year’s, but probably one from 1992, or the one falling after the millennium. The voucher was usable dependent upon whether or not we’d all make it through the Y2K impending doom. Thinking we wouldn’t, I stored it with my emergency reserve of chocolate. It was for an hour of reflexology–which, at the time, I mistook to believe was like tarot card reading, or crystal healing, or saving up a supply of apricot pits in case I’d fall victim to a case of severe toenail fungus.

It wasn’t.

It was simply a foot massage set to a lush film score.

After seeing the gift certificate perched among the plethora of shoes I have—and don’t wear, but might one day if the situation called for it (like reintroducing my combo high heel/chia pet shoes or the treadmill trainers with the built in CD player)—I finally called the reflexologist and reminded her that somewhere around a dozen years or so ago, she cashed a check from my mother and could I now book an appointment.

She graciously did not feign ignorance, but I thought I felt a note of judgment on the other end of the line. Still …

I arrived at the tiny spa and was immediately enveloped by the pricey scents of sandalwood and patchouli—two fragrances I recognized from the myriad that lined my bathroom cupboards and filled my closet drawers, but were hands off except for the occasional sniff. I vowed to open one of those jars and jugs when I got home—just like I vowed to open a Garanimals clothing line for pets when I was nine and feeling entrepreneurial. It just ain’t gonna happen (although I have been making progress with the wool-lined wellington boots for the sheep).

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So, for those of you who aren’t keenly familiar with the art of reflexology (aside from my nine word definition above), simply put by my trusty rusty reliable source Wikipedia, it is thus:

Reflexology, or zone therapy, is an alternative medicine involving the physical act of applying pressure to the feet, hands, or ears with specific thumb, finger, and hand techniques without the use of oil or lotion. It is based on what reflexologists claim to be a system of zones and reflex areas that they say reflect an image of the body on the feet and hands, with the premise that such work effects a physical change to the body.

In other words, there’s a spot on each of your feet (and hands) that connects to all the other important parts, glands and organs of your body. Press a particular spot on your big toe and your nose can start leaking. Knead your instep and chances are you’re going to make your stomach rumble. Squeeze smack dab in the middle of your foot and you’ll likely have to rush off to the bathroom to relieve yourself. Funky stuff, indeed.

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Okay, it might not be exactly as I’ve indicated, but having looked at the foot chart on the wall, I’m going to go with ‘pretty close.’

The main problem I have with the idea of reflexology is that someone has to touch another person’s feet. And seriously, I can’t imagine enough money in the world to charge for that task. I remember my children’s feet when they were babies and how incredibly adorable they were. I tickled them, I blew raspberries on them and I put them all over my face to play peekaboo with. But then one day … BAMB! They turned into adult feet and I could not make a wide enough berth.

But before you judge me, it’s not just other people’s feet I am squeamish over; understand that I’m even repelled by my own.

Okay, that was a totally unnecessary rant, and I got a little off track, but my point was simply that someone else cared enough about my well being to bypass making comments on the amount of sock fuzz between my toes. Also, unlike my father and his weekly report when I was younger, she did not find it necessary to point out the fact that I will never be hired as a foot model.

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All in all, I was convinced of the enormous benefit of taking care of one’s health and happiness via one’s feet. Therefore, I am on a new campaign to look after them a little more than I have. I’ve gotten new nail clippers, a loofah sponge, a self-rolling foot massager, foot salt scrubs and aloe drenched socks.

Now they will promptly go into a drawer where I will gaze at them longingly …

~Shelley

**News Announcement for all you Peakers out there:**

Rob’s crazy cartoons are finally going to be available for your walls in the form of a  2015 calendar! But instead of us choosing our favorite doodles, we decided to leave it up to YOU. On the last blog post of each month, you’ll get to vote on the sketches in competition. We’ll reveal the winners one by one, and come November, If you’ve Gotta have a GOTT, you can place your order. Super simple. Simply super.

Don’t forget to check out what we’re cookin’ in the Scullery (here) and what we all talked about down in the pub (here). And to see more of Robin Gott‘s humor–all from the only pen carved from a human funny bone–click here.

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