In anticipation of my day of beauty at Kohler Water Spa in Burr Ridge, a gift I was given by my husband and daughter for Mother’s Day, I thought I would get a little prep work done Sunday.

You see, I rarely get my nails and toes tended to. And I didn’t want to be that girl at Kohler that required the poor manicurist to bust out the chainsaw, protective eyewear and jackhammer—all in order to give yours truly a pedicure. I thought I would go and get a little pre-work done so I don’t have any insecurities at my luxury appointment, allowing me to completely relax and indulge in my day.

So off I went Sunday. I left “little britches” with my husband and went during my daughter’s afternoon nap.

While I was there I had some familiar experiences and some new ones, too. I literally began typing the questions down on my phone because I couldn’t believe that what started out as a trip for relaxation suddenly turned into a skincare-regimen hazing, making me more stressed than I was when I walked in the place:

Your skin is really dry. You really need to use lotion. Like a lot of it. Morning and night. Yes ma’am. I think I got the point.

You definitely want me to use the razor on your calluses, right? Oh, to shave the inches of dead skin off of my feet because I don’t get here enough to pamper myself? Yes, that would be lovely! Oh, what’s that? It’s a $5 upcharge? What the hey!

So, are you having a baby or did you just have one? Luckily, I am pregnant. I find it hard to believe what one would say if they were carrying a big beer gut and were asked this very question.

You like to pick your nails, eh? They look like it. You really shouldn’t do it. It’s not good. At all. What was your first clue? It’s called oral fixation. Would you rather I pick up smoking again? Okay then.

Is it too much to ask to just sit there in silence and not be told how unkempt your feet are? Or that you have ugly nail beds? Or what a lousy job you’re doing at taking care of yourself? I mean, as if I didn’t know that already. For goodness sake, I walk around with an inch of brown roots showing on my should-be-blonde head for a week before I even realize what is going on up there.

For once, I would just like to go and sit without being judged. Perhaps even have someone tell me nice things about myself and not throw out homework assignments. 

And by all means, I do NOT want to sit in a chair that performs inappropriate seat movements in the general butt area like I experienced Sunday. For a moment, I thought I was being punked! I looked around like, “Whooooop! Whoa Nelly! That can’t be right.” I scrambled to turn it off and then looked around for the practical joker. No one was laughing. Let's just say I felt more than a little violated. Of course afterward, I started looking at the other women, wondering if they were enjoying that particular “massage.”  

And the thing that aggravates me the most is when two manicurists begin talking amongst themselves in a language that I don't understand, laughing and constantly looking at me in between chuckles. Um, I’m not stupid ladies. Pretty sure you’re talking smack about me. Your tip just went out the window.

All I'm asking for is to be pampered. On the two days a year I am allowed to escape to the chop-shop, I don’t want lectures; I want to leave feeling renewed and refreshed, not ridiculed and repulsive.  

Despite my experience Sunday, I must say, my nails and toes look phenomenal. I no longer look like a three-toed-sloth that could win a tree-climbing contest—something that I’m sure the ladies at Kohler will appreciate.