wanna ped my egg?

So the other night, a 30 percent off coupon burning a hole in my sassy green purse, I embarked on a romantic night out at Kohls, hoping to score some sensible shoes for my 'wish we were sexy' feet. An hour later, spurned by the lack of sizes, I wandered around the store, intent on spending some money on something.

Anything.

And I mean Any. Thing.

That's when I rounded a corner and walked smack dab into my thing hanging on a display between the kitchen mixers and patio furniture.

The Ped Egg!

Hello, lovah...

Now, I realize that some people are scared and/or disgusted by the Ped Egg and it's promise to remove dry, calloused skin from the soles of one's foot. I know that watching the commercial and seeing the actor unleash said dead skin into a waste can like Parmesan cheese upon a plate of spaghetti is a smidgen unsettling. However, for me, watching that commercial is akin to watching porn. Granted, I'm talking really bad porn, but something captivating nonetheless. I have sat in the dark on my couch and rewound the DVR at that money shot so many times, my fingers running down my legs to rub the length of my cracked heels, that I knew it was really just a matter of time before I was going to have to have a Ped Egg.

(Sidebar: My feet - which I tried to photograph effectively in both a 'before' and 'after' environment because I've long known it's my feet you're all quite interested in seeing, yet failed miserably at - can run on the dry side because I stand around in sensible shoes on a concrete floor the bulk of the week, then I subject them to various forms of sweaty exercise or barefoot belly dancing. Do not let this fact put a damper on your simmering desire for me)

My hands shaking with glee and griping my Ped Egg and 30 percent off coupon, I walked up to the register to pay for my purchase (and by "walked," I mean "floated happily upon my phalanges in a state of podiatric glee the likes of which would prompt people to smile at me in response, then look knowingly at their partner and exclaim, 'Yep. That's a Ped Egg smile!'"), and then rushed home to try out the goods.

Well, first I attempted to get the Tool Man to do the job for me. I figured it looked like a hand plane, he'd probably be all over it, right? Nope. Dude is brand loyal AND has a serious foot aversion. Finds them, and I quote, "Blech."

So I journeyed to the bedroom to test my new little toy.

Three words:

Oh, my GOD!

Three more words:

I LOVE it!

Now, I've said these very same six words about other little toys I've taken up to my bedroom to try, but this one was clearly different, and that would be obvious, but I do have to say there was a moment when I felt a little "Oh!" in my swimming suit parts because it is JUST THAT GREAT! There was a point in the proceedings when I stood upon softened soles and danced around my bedroom using the dead skin in the Ped Egg's handy dandy collection chamber as a miniature maraca. I then composed a love song to the Ped Egg, and performed a small, but tasteful civil union between it and my feet.

Let me put it this way. If my feet were hands, and I'd just committed a crime, and the first thing I thought of to elude authorities was to burn my fingertips with acid so they couldn't trace my prints upon the inevitable point when I was captured (because of my poor criminal planning, and thank goodness I never knew this was possible during my shady past as a teenage shoplifter...), the Ped Egg would be my acid. My feet are so smooth they would elude authorities.

They also turn on the Tool Man, who suddenly lost some of his disdain when I rubbed my feet upon his back and asked him to guess which part of my body was acting as a temptress.

Long post short, I urge you to toss out your perceived aversion to the Ped Egg, run on calloused foot to the nearest available retailer, and throw down your $10 (seriously, this thing is so glorious it deserves full retail price, though 30 percent off makes me feel a little smug and all, "Oh, I should probably get some lotion for my paws, too!").

Then let's play footsie and throw our magical foot dust in the air like some creepy kind of confetti (or not) while singing Gloria Estefan's "Get On Your Feet" (or not). My feet may be a bit more sexy, but they will always and forever be sensible.