"I am terrified of feet. So naturally, I got a pedicure."

Image: Supplied.

I would rather eat a Madagascan hissing cockroach, have a bath of worms or go through the world’s most haunted house, alone, on Halloween, than have my feet touched/ have to touch someone else’s feet.

I can’t even deal with my own. While I am attempting to overcome my fear (I no longer have to wear gloves when I paint my own toenails. Progress.) the list of things I would rather do than have my feet touched remains extensive.

Which is why I am exceptionally proud of myself for engaging in a common pampering past-time: The Pedicure.

Yes, I am aware it is an enormous luxury and not something I should reasonably be congratulated for, but trust me, it was a HUGE deal.

You see, as is often the case in these warmer months, in our gorgeous sunburnt country, my feet had taken a battering. Walking on hot sand, hanging out with family in the back yard, popping bare-foot to the shops for a Slurpee (queue judgement) had left me with heels capable of sanding an 18th century armoire. My toenails were uneven and my calluses could only reasonably be described as Next Level.

Something had to be done. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the one to do it.

It was an emotional roller-coaster, but my journey pretty much consisted of five different stages.

The first was reluctance. I knew it had to be done, if only for the sake of my vanity, but that doesn’t mean I was happy about it. After approximately six weeks of sheer avoidance (and three hours at the shopping centre, walking in and out of every salon and nail bar, proclaiming I was ‘just looking’ and practically sprinting back out) I finally made the appointment. I felt proud. Proud and petrified.

The second stage was more of a physical reaction than emotional. As I sat on the waiting bench, my left-knee bouncing up and down, I began to feel clammy. Not just a mild, ‘does it feel a little warm in here?’ upper lip glisten. No, that would be far to delicate. It was more like, rivulets running down my lower back and underarms. ‘I sense impending doom’ level sweats.

They call my name and before I can run away , my feet are submerged in the spa bath.

This is where we enter stage three: fight or flight.

Apparently, I am a fighter.

The term ‘knee-jerk reaction' has never been more appropriate. Every single time she tried to go at me with the pumice stone, I physically rejected her advances. Poor woman nearly had a swift kick to the face seven times over. She did receive one to the chest.

I apologised. She got the trainee to hold me down.

This is where my phone came out and we entered stage four: denial. I had to distract myself. Not much was happening on whatsapp. Damn it. I began staring eagerly at a photo of the dog of some one I went to high-school with.

Never have I been more engaged in a description of my colleagues lunch. I even uploaded a photo of my current situation and spent WAY too long thinking of a witty caption. Whatever it was,  I needed to focus on it. And not focus on the fact that THERE WAS A STRANGER TOUCHING MY FEET.

Stage five was pure relief. It is done and I survived. Just. The lovely aesthetician gifted me a pair of paper shoes and ushered me across the room to what can only be described as a foot fan. As I sat there, the cool air drying my OPI 'Don't Pretzel My Buttons', my heart rate began to slow. My feet looked nice. Well, as nice as a foot can ever look to someone like me.

They looked clean, and soft. I say looked, because after what I had just endured I was going to need at least a few hours to recover enough to touch them myself.

I expected to run out screaming,'I am never doing this again!' but I have to be honest. It wasn't as bad as I expected. Don't get me wrong, I will only be returning when my heels can once again strip back the varnish on a coffee table, but I didn't die. I didn't cry and I didn't throw up.

I apologised to the aesthetician, again, profusely, and I walked out of that salon basking in the rosie glow of post-terror adrenaline and pride (with just a hint of embarrassment).