An Open Letter to the Lady in the Park Offering “Free Tantalizing Foot Massage”

Dear Lady in the Park Offering “Free Tantalizing Foot Massage,”

 

I was surprised to see you this morning. Not that I expected to see you elsewhere or at a different time. I never thought I’d see anyone ever, let alone at Hallstrom Park in between the monkey bars and the kids’ bike track, offering “free tantalizing foot massage.”

 

I saw you sitting among your elaborate setup of diamante-encrusted cushions, fine china teacups, and boom-box blasting pan-pipe tunes as I pushed my son on the swing while he shouted, “Higher, Daddy! Aaaaaall the way into space!” My eyes caught the sight, and my nose caught the scent, of an elderly man slumped like a figure in a Renaissance painting, with his naked, spindly foot phalanges resting on your frilly-aproned lap.

 

He was reclining so far back that his feet were higher than the rest of his body. I was initially troubled that he might have injured himself and that you were a good Samaritan helping blood circulate back to his heart. But then I saw your whopping, well-worn, homemade toenail-colored sign, and your hands lacquering oil onto his skeletal feet as if you were glazing a Christmas ham and I became even more troubled, suspecting his blood was circulating to a different body part (I’m sure you know where I mean).

 

I’ve never wanted a tantalizing foot massage. Maybe I just need to take more magnesium, but I think if someone tried to give my tootsies a buffing, they’d cramp up as tightly as my son holds onto the idea that he can “STAY AT THE PARK FOREVER, DADDY!” Even if getting my calluses greased up was my thing, I can’t fathom having such a hankering that I’d accept a free massage from a stranger in a cold, muddy, windswept park, surrounded by the far-from-tantalizing sounds of screaming kids.

 

It’s difficult, but I’m trying not to judge. So, I hope you’ll indulge me with a few questions.

 

First, what are your credentials? Have you been doing this for one, two, ten, or as many years as it took for that bird to feel at home and build a nest in your hair?

 

Second, why is this for free? Is this out of the goodness of your own heart or are you hoping for some sort of reciprocity? Are you a certified podiatrist or wealthy heiress who gets such a thrill from polishing trotters that you offer your services free of charge, even on your days off?

 

Third, who is the massage intended to tantalize? Is it the receiver? The kids on the jungle gym? If it’s you, I’m less worried about the moral implications and more concerned that a sudden rise in your blood pressure might make you keel over and settle forever amongst the cats lounging at your feet who are coughing up furballs and cuticles.

 

Fourth, have you considered a part of the body that’s more publicly acceptable and less gross? I’m no expert in massage — my only bona fides are that I’ve had a body my whole life and it hurts more and more each year — but in the last two seconds, I’ve already come up with eighteen other body parts that could remain clothed and are less grody than feet.

 

Fifth, who is the man, and is he okay? Is he a regular customer? Is he the grandfather of the distressed girl who asked me if I had seen Pop-Pop? Or is he just a stranger who happened to see your sign and thought to himself, “I didn’t know it a moment ago, but what I’m craving right now is a full sensory immersive experience, amidst the mania of a playground, where my sunlight-deprived hairy toes, bunion, and plantar warts are gyrated by a sequined technicolor poncho wearing octagenarian”?

 

Last, is this a traveling thing, or will I need to take my and my son’s feet to a different park next weekend?

 

Sincerely, with my shoes double-knotted,

 

Angus