Love and the Pedicure

You can tell a great deal about a woman from her feet, according to Sandra Wallach-Dean, Associate Foot-Image Consultant of The Opulent Ankle (3rd and Jackson, adjacent to Emory’s Greek Deli, purveyors of feta cheese so fine that Sandra herself refuses to take her smoke breaks within 50 feet of their doorway for fear of the transitive properties of saturated fats). Actually, not only the foot. This phenomenon, says Wallach-Dean, extends to footwear, hosiery, even socks. In some instances, the actual physical foot need not be present.

For example, if a Rockport-shod 40-something wife spends 93 seconds perusing the aisles before questioning as to the location of the Dearfoams®, Sandra is sure beyond reasonable doubt that this future owner of said comfy-yet-overpriced indoor slippers has suffered through an entirely orgasm-free decade.

Sandra W.D. also will tell you that single women have a penchant for boots. The height of the boot is corollary to two factors: 1) Newness of Singledom—this is relative to the amount of time said woman spent in her last relationship. To illustrate, a woman recently free from a 3-year relationship would most likely frequent nightclubs in knee-high boots for a minimum of 3 months after the aforementioned break-up. Proportionally, a 6-month relationship would constitute a 2-week knee-high period, followed by the customary half-calf boot for a minimum of another 2 weeks (or 3 months, in the former case). If no intervention has been attempted, this second phase is usually proceeded by the third (and final) stiletto-heeled ankle boot period. This final period can vary in length, and in extreme cases can persist until the onset of; 2) Aged Desperation—the process of which is, for all intents and purposes, a mirror version of New Singledom. The tragic end result of which is 56 year-old salt-and-peppered hipsters scouring their local taverns in black-laced thigh-highs in search of a penis with a pension.

And then, says S. W.-D. (wildly gesticulating with her pinky finger, clasping a near-empty cosmopolitan between her ring- and middle-fingers, and pinching the butt of a long-dead Newport between her pointer and thumb (Foot-Image Consultants have fabulously dexterous phalanges; whether this is a result of, or a prerequisite to, the constant lacing of, zipping of, or shoving of fat feet into too-small shoes is a subject that causes the former Mrs. Dean Dean (hence the keeping of “Wallach-") no small amount of consternation, she’d tell you)), there’s toenail polish. You might as well tattoo your life story on your metatarsals. Black means emotional problems, probably a diet pill suicide attempt, or a torrid affair with a shrink or some such drivel. Dark red is just a good old-fashioned slut. Multi-colored toes usually signify innocent well-to-do types who haven’t suffered enough to’ve truly lived. They’ll be back in ten years with much darker-hued cuticles. Pink? Best not to speak of pink toenail polish to Sandra Wallach-Dean. They bring their friends, or their mothers, all smiles, often flaunting freshly mounted diamonds or flashing deep, care-worn eyes. Only a woman in love would dare have the audacity to paint her toenails pink.

It is beyond reasonable doubt that Sandra Wallach-Dean has suffered through an entirely pink-toe-polish-free decade.