Yesterday my friend, Margaret, twisted my arm to get mani/pedis today.

AIM conversation from December 16:
Margaret: Yo.
Erin: Yo.
Margaret: What are you doing tomorrow?
Erin: Coffee with my friend Leslie in the morning, meeting with my trainer at the gym at 1 p.m. - why?
Margaret: Wanna get mani/pedis?
Erin: Are frogs green and slimy?

It doesn't take much.

I love Marg. She is all of the things that I am not - hip, as in she wears ironic t-shirts that on her don't seem lame - disgustingly well-rounded, - she has degrees in math and religion from the University of Chicago and is the television critic for Time Out Chicago - and somehow at age 23 has managed a certain self-awareness that I'm still chasing at almost 30. If I didn't adore her I would want to kick her ass.

I am not, never have been nor ever will be A Cool Person. I am as vanilla and bland as they come. Any quick glance of my Flickr photos will tell you that I am as yuppie and as mainstream as it gets. I am the girl who, at perfectly respectable social functions, will start rambling on about the best cuticle creams to anyone who'll listen and it's entirely possible that I might regale you with the latest on Angelina and Brad without an ounce of compunction.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not a total lameoid. However, if it were not for my taste in music, John Mayer aside, I could just as easily be mistaken for any Trixie coming down the pike. These things used to bother me until I just gave in to the inescapable truth that I love a good spa day and think that these shoes are to-die-for, especially in the grey shade. Does it make me shallow? Yes, most likely it does. Any measure of vanity is to a certain degree I suppose, it just depends on your poison as to whether or not it's an acceptable shallowness or the mark of someone with too much space to fill in between her ears.

I probably fall right down the middle.

Just the same, I've sort of found some peace with it all. It's come in handy at times. I'm the person you're going to call when you need to know what to wear for certain functions, especially since I have a near-encyclopedic memory of the wardrobes of most of my friends. You call me if you need the name of a good hair stylist. I'm who you ask what to do about your split ends, what trends to avoid like the plague and an explanation as to why it's really an outdated concept to not wear white after Labor Day but that you really shouldn't do it anyway.

Most people are too embarrassed to learn such nuggets of information for themselves, rightfully so, and my friends know I embrace these things with gusto.

Before Margaret could pick the spot, I took charge of our mani/pedi destination. There is only one acceptable spot for nails in the yuppie-filled haven of Chicago that I proudly called home. I am not going to tell any of you about it because it's hard enough to get in to as it is. Candace took me there last year and for $38 you're treated to a top-notch paint job on your hands and feet, in addition to legs, feet, hands, arms, shoulders and back massages that you'd pay $100 for anywhere else. It's a shady looking place and if you didn't know how awesome they are, you'd never guess from the outside.

I only wish it had existed back in 1999 when the guy I was dating was living in the apartment directly above it.

"Margaret, if you don't love this place after ..."
"Then I'm dead to you," she asked, smirking, knowing how seriously I take these things.
"Yes. You will be dead to me."

While I treat such places as sanctuaries, I'm always nervous bringing my friends to them for fear they'll take the wind out of my sails, reminding me of what a terrible tool I truly I am. I wished Margaret good luck and set her off on her own. After the two-hour treatment was over, I asked her how she was.

"Oh my God, dude."
"I know, right? All for $38?"
"This place makes me miss New York."

As we made our way outside, Margaret in her puffy retro white coat and orange sunglasses, me in my pink, puffy ski jacket and Burberry scarf, chatting away and grabbing our cell phones, I remarked:

"Jesus. We're a couple of stereotypes."
"Well you are a stereotype, sister," laughing.
"Yeah. I guess I am. But we both have really pretty nails as a result."
"That we do. That we do."

Posted by Erin at 09:05 PM | filed under: Odds and ends