My poor, tired, wearisome feet are practically begging for a pedicure.

Although I know I mustn’t. I swore I’d never go back there, back to that dark time in my life.

During my last pregnancy, I became an addict. I needed my fix every two weeks, whether my feet needed to be pampered or not.

It became a fetish, a costly obsession.

It shamelessly turned into feet fornication.

I became a pedi-whore.

I was feeling unattractive and my feet became the sexiest part of my body. Shoe cleavage replaced that of my over sized, hormonal and disproportionate breasts. Dark red OPI colours were my choice of poison.

Yet like any other dirty habit, it came at a price.

The ladies at the dingy little store front that didn’t speak a word of English, gave my little toes a massage with a happy ending every time. Gloriously beautiful, edible feet that complimented any pair of shoes.

I began to feel sexy again. As though the 35 extra pregnancy kilos that I put on, didn’t count.

In that salon, the beauticians and I had shared intimate foot moments and time stood still. At the time I felt as though my life was a constant struggle, chasing zen at every opportunity. When I was in that chair, holding a magazine, nothing else mattered. I had found zen, and I had it in head lock.

These women had touched my feet, we’d laugh over something they’d say that I didn’t quite understand but was too embarrassed to ask them to repeat…for a third time. They’d massage my calf muscles to the point that my eyes would roll to the very hind of my skull. They had pushed those wretched cuticles back to where they belonged, without a hint of disdain on their faces. The whole process was poetic. It was luxurious. It was escapism.

I began to start imagining a relationship where there was none. For me, my habit was becoming more than just that of the physical nature. It was more than just a business transaction. These ladies became a crutch.

Although for the beauticians, I was just another customer. Another dollar sign at the end of the day, a meal ticket.

I’m not going to lie to you. It hurt.

It hurt in my heart, but most of all, it hurt in my wallet.

I had enablers. Those who would innocently tell me my feet looked fabulous. Those who would recommend me to other pedicure establishments. Those who would send me gift vouchers for my birthday.

They couldn’t have known. How could they?

I had managed to keep it a very tight little secret. Not even my husband was aware of how far gone I was.

I would only ever pay cash. I wouldn’t dare leave a trail leading toward my indiscretion.

It was me who ended it. I’d had enough of the lies, the constant sneaking around, and the incessant need for baby-sitters.

I had become too addicted, I was too reliant. It was too risky. I decided to let my feet go. No more OPI colours. No more sitting in the massage chair.

No more beautiful, soft, fabulous looking feet.

Once I had made the decision, they, like everything else on my body began looking weathered and tired.

I had been reduced to naming my eyes Luis and Vuitton, as the bags underneath them sure came at a price.

The exhaustion you feel when you are a mother is profound. Being the constant in someone else’s life, does take it’s toll. As much as there is to enjoy about motherhood, it can’t be denied that it is a wholehearted effort on some days.

Sacrifices need to be made in order to ensure every aspect of your life runs smoothly. It becomes very difficult to justify extra expenditures, when there is just so much else that takes financial priority.

I understood, and accepted the reality of being a responsible grown up. A responsible grown up destined to live a life with ugly feet and a wardrobe full of closed shoes.

Although every now and again, I think back to those times in the chair. Sometimes I even fantasise about revisiting my addiction.

Perhaps even allow myself to stop in for a lunch break pedicure on days I find myself without children.

I mean, just for a one off of course.

I could totally stop after one.

It’s not like I’m addicted or anything.

“I’ll choose this dark red, OPI colour please.

$35 you say?

Yes, that’ll be cash thank you.”

Do you have a secret indulgence that you struggle to give up?