On top of the plethora of crap I had to deal with, my back tightened, my shoulders ached and my feet hurt from the 4-inch heels I must wear daily. It was the ultimate pity party for me. After dropping off my daughter at yet another afternoon practice, I daydreamed as I drove to my next errand. Just an hour all about me. Maybe a quick massage would do the trick. Then the pity party resumed as I considered how much a one-hour massage would cost.
As I pulled into a neighborhood strip mall, a sign captured my attention. Happy Foot? I sat, staring at the sign. I watched as a clean-cut gentleman went in.
Interesting, I thought. I was shocked at the overwhelmingly positive reviews it had received. My curiosity got the best of me. I had to call and see if they could get me in.
The woman on the phone spoke in broken English, but I was able to understand. She asked if I could be there in 10 minutes. For the next 10 minutes I observed the comings and goings of the establishment, trying to read the faces of the customers.
They looked legit. Walking in, I got that first-day-of-school feeling in my stomach. Hospital-type curtains hung from the ceiling and I was unable to see past the small reception area. I was promptly and quietly greeted and was asked to follow the receptionist to the back.
