The Emotional Stages Of A Foot Peel
Don’t lie — you’re either picking the skin off your feet right now, you’re updating the tracking number on your latest order, or you want to try one and join the legions of foot shedders ‘round the world.
Discovery
The first step in the process. You either hear it from a friend, see it online, or Amazon’s algorithms perform their trickery.
You’re telling me there’s a sock mask you can wear for 60–90 minutes that slowly peels the dead skin off your feet? And it costs less than a pedicure that I want so bad but can’t responsibly or safely get because of a pandemic?
Add to cart, baby!
Anticipation and Fear
Once you’ve completed your transaction, you wait for your latest, and most disgusting impulse buy. You’re excited and nervous. It’s like that time you sent a MySpace message to the boy in your geometry class who looked like an extra on The OC.
Is it going to hurt?
Will my feet get raw?
Did I just waste $20-$25? I could buy avocado toast and an oat milk latte instead!
Are foot peels, avocado toast, and alternative milk lattes the reason I will never amass the wealth of previous generations?
Possibly. That, along with multiple economic disasters at key points of our generations life, wage stagnation, the housing crisis, climate change, etc.
Then, one day, the notification appears… it has arrived.
Maybe you just ordered the lone foot peel mask. Or, maybe you added to your order of medicated shampoo and a female urination device. However you purchase the mythical foot peel one thing is clear; going to be like the Battle of the Bastards on your calluses.
You excitedly open the package and examine your newly acquired treasure. Your heart rate increases — screw the gym — skin peeling beauty treatments is your cardio now!
As you prepare your feeties for cracked heel annihilation of 2020… panic ensues.
Do I really want to do this?
Yes, yes, you do.
Will I feel the skin sloshing around in my socks? Absolutely, yes. This will happen. Don’t say you weren’t warned.
Chill
You crack open a White Claw and get to business. The mask is on. There’s no going back. You set a timer on your phone. Your finger hovers over the play button on 1,000 Pound Sisters. It’s your time to shine, baby.
Back To Reality
The timer goes off. The chill ceases. You wash your feet off, per the instructions, and sock up.
You feel like an idiot for fearing a plastic sock full of acid. Life goes on.
Denial
A few days go by and nothing. You were anticipating an Olive Garden cheese greater scenario and have been sorely let down. Little do you know, the shit is getting ready to hit the fan, and the skin is about to come off.
Forgetfulness
Again, you go on with your life. Another week goes by. The foot peel is like your prom dress from 2006 — forgotten. You fall asleep at 10:00 pm on a Saturday night re-watching 30 Rock for the 1,000th time while drooling in a recreational NyQuill coma.
Life is good.
BUT… you wake up refreshed from your NyQuill coma. You put on your shoes and socks. Maybe you go for a run (yeah, right!). Maybe you stand in the kitchen aimlessly staring at the Target Weekly Ad.
It doesn’t matter what you’re doing. All that matters in the moment is the feeling in your sock. It’s something you’ve never felt before and you aren’t sure you like it or understand what’s happening.
Then, it dawns on you…
THERE’S FUCKING FOOT JERKY ALL OVER THE HOUSE
No further explanation necessary.
Folks, we’ve escalated much faster than we thought. Just when you think it’s safe to take your socks off before your nightly couch drool-fest…
It happens.
It peels.
You take your socks off and behold the majesty of the foot peel.
IT. IS. GLORIOUS.
The THERE’S FUCKING FOOT JERKY ALL OVER THE HOUSE phase is not to be trifled with. This is when the shit gets real. The peel has not failed. It has claimed you.
There is no going back.
Possible Regret
Not everyone will go through this phase, only the faint of heart. As you’re watching foot skin peel off in the shower and clean it out of your drain along with wads of your own hair, your heart might fill with regret and shame.
As shocking as it is seeing your own skin peel off, it’s what you came here for. You RSVP’d to the dead skin party and you don’t plan on leaving early.
It’s like Hotel California, you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.
Relief
Just as soon as it begins, it ends.
You throw your foot jerky-less socks into the laundry basket and admire your baby-smooth feeties.
You feel oddly accomplished. If you can survive the sloshing off of your own foot skin, think of everything else you can accomplish!
The DIY Pedicure
Now that your feet look like they belong to a human again and not Bigfoot, you get out your favorite nail polish and hop to it!
Well, not so much hop as awkwardly adjust yourself and perhaps throw a boob over your shoulder to get to your big toe.
Finally, you emerge from the trenches with a fresh coat of paint that resembles something Jackson Pollock created while driving down a gravel road on in a go-kart. Diligently, you take a cotton swab and dip it in some acetone to put the finishing touches on your masterpiece.
You promise yourself that you will put lotion on your feet every night AND sleep in socks. It’s time to turn over a new leaf; and you’re going to start with your feet.
Back to Your Nihilist Garbage Person Existence
A few weeks go by. At this point, you’re back to living your regular life of drudgery. Maybe you’ve been wearing the same $8 sweatpants you bought in college and your husband’s old wrestling t-shirt for three days whilst covered in Cheeto dust.
You’ve long given up on putting lotion on your feet every night… you’re an adult, damn it! There are things to do like watch 1,000 Pound Sisters, attempt to understand cryptocurrency, and look at your own period blood. Ain’t nobody got time for that!
Eventually, you realize your feet resemble a poorly maintained country road. You let it go for far, far too long. There is no way you can maintain this mess.
It’s time to pull out the big guns… pro pedi time, bitch.
You swallow your pride, slip on some flip-flops, pull up some erotic Buffy fanfic on your phone, slide back in the massage chair, and let a licensed nail tech judge your poor life choices.
