Lips are moving, eyes are directed at me, but I can’t hear a word being said.   The bubble of fog surrounding my head makes me feel a bit like I am wearing Buzz Lightyear’s space helmet. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”  I ask Jenny (who is scraping my feet with a cheese grater-like tool).

“That is a nice color,” she repeats, indicating the small bottle that I am holding.

“Thanks.” I wonder: Why did I say “thanks”?  I didn’t make the color.  I didn’t even bring the color with me from home.  I simply took it off of her nail polish shelf and am waiting to hand it to her.

I slip back into my happy place.

The nail salon always has this affect on me.  From the second I arrive until I leave, I exist in a haze. I can’t hear, think straight or answer questions properly.  It is possibly brought on from the incense burning before the Sacred Heart Jesus picture.  Or perhaps weird fruit fumes emanate from the giant bowl of kiwi offered up to an unknown deity on the shelf below Jesus.  Most likely it is from the methyl methacrylate particles that saturate the counters, chairs and the technicians.  Whatever the reason, my body refuses to be able to participate in the idle chatter that seems to come so easy for other patrons in the salon.

The teacher from Saskatoon, the lady preparing for a trip to Vancouver, the gal who works at the bank… all yukking it up with their technicians.  I wonder if Jenny feels left out because I have nothing to chat about?

There is an older man getting a pedicure right across from me.  “Do you cook Vietnamese food every day?” He asks the woman working on his feet.

“Yeah, yeah.” she replies quickly.

“Wow!  You must have to plan that out at the beginning of the week!” he says with shock in his voice.

Really? I wonder again:  Did he really just say that?  She IS Vietnamese.  Why is it shocking? He kept talking, “The Vietnamese have taken over the manicure-pedicure business big time, haven’t they?”

She giggled and said, “Yeah, yeah.” again.

“Quite the assembly line you’ve got here.” he observes.  After that I mentally checked out.  I had to stop listening because his comments made me uncomfortable and I wasn’t sure what to do with that.  I retreated to my bubble and enjoyed the remainder of my pedicure in my own head.  I look at Jesus, staring solemnly from the shelf and wonder if His eyes are as glazed over as mine.

I am thankful for the cheese grater, the lotion, the warm towels and the massage chair.  I am thankful for Jenny and that she didn’t try and engage me in small talk, and I pray that the woman working on the brazen, inappropriate man doesn’t really understand what he is saying.  I am thankful for Strawberry Margarita pink polish and for the coffee awaiting me after I leave.  And as I step out into the sun and the warmth of summer brings the sounds and colors of the world to life around me again, I am thankful that I can express all of these thoughts to help clear my foggy head.

Peace.