The Surest Sign of Spring

A couple of weeks ago, when all things healthwise were topsy-turvy in my world, I got a text from Boy#4.

"Are you having surgery?" he asked my cell phone. "J. texted me saying that he'd heard that (and asking if you were OK), so I just wanted to see who has the better information."

To see why this is significant, you should know that my son lives out of state, as does his friend, J. I love living in a small town partly because everyone looks out for everyone else, but once in a while the news accuracy is just a hair off plumb.

I was able to reassure Four that he had the better information, that I was not having surgery, but was being treated with high doses of blood thinners and TLC.

"OK, I assumed that was the case. Learning your mom is having surgery via text from your friend would probably be worse than hearing about it from her blog."

Oops.

Well, Four, if you get a text from J. that I was seen hobbling down Main Street and that I didn't seem to be walking well--polio, maybe?--be assured that I was just welcoming spring.

You can keep your robins, your crocuses, even your groundhog. In my world, the surest sign that spring has sprung is the pedicure that ends winter toes. From October to April I am frugal and be-socked (or be-pantyhosed, as I confessed here recently). I shine up my own toes and rub in my own foot softeners because no one is seeing those bare feet except me. But when tax season ends, I skedaddle over to my favorite pedicurist and she pampers me with an orange-scented leg-and-foot massage that makes me practically drool into the hot whirlpool at my feet then finishes with nail polish in a color I would never buy for myself.

Yesterday, though, I hadn't planned ahead and didn't bring my own post-pedi footwear, so all of Small Town saw me shuffling down the block in the fashionable spa-issued slippers. My gait may have indicated a serious health setback, so I'm just clearing up any confusion here:

I'm fine, Four, and my toes are looking sharp.

It's spring.