Throughout my adult life, there are two things that terrify me about summer: bathing suits and sandals.

Gasp. Talk about the two most horrible clothing predicaments for the season’s fashions.

I know that sounds self-deprecating. I should embrace my inner goddess. Well, I have and she agrees with me: no public displays of bathing suits, but sandals are necessary, even with our ugly feet. That means overcoming my fear of pedicures.

While most people consider this spa treatment a luxury, I have an acute case of podophobia, or a fear of feet. They gross me out. If the Carpenter even thinks of putting his big goofy feet on my lap while we sit on the couch to watch a movie, I will lose my ever-loving mind.

It’s not an odor issue (although, seriously, so gross); it’s more of what I like to call an “ick” factor, as in, “keep those awkward little freak toe appendages to yourself.”

There is absolutely no reason I need to touch anyone’s feet. My own scare me enough, thank you. Pointed like a pair of 1980s dance shoes, only birds envy my long big toe and the subsequent digits that follow in a descending line, in the shape of an arrow.

Yet there I sat, in the pedicure massage chair, with my ugly feet submerged in a tub of warm, soapy water, subdued by submission. The fight or flight body sweats had started and I wanted out.

Fortunately, my pedicure specialist Miss K was a pretty sprite of a girl, with a no-nonsense, sit-and-stay look. This was her terrain and she had the nail polish colour picked out: earth momma (I can’t even make that up).

Then Miss K did the unthinkable – she touched my feet. I swear I couldn’t look for the fear that the tingles up my spine would launch me into mid-air. My neurosis peaked silently several times, as did my tickle reflex, and when I jumped Miss K acted none the wiser.

She made me talk about silly stuff so I would prattle on and not think about the sharp objects scraping and clipping my bird feet.

I apologized no less than 30 times for my embarrassing alien toes. She lied and said my feet weren’t ugly and that she’d seen worse. It was then and there that I decided Miss K was amazing.

However, at some point in our conversation, a line was crossed. Miss K declared she was going to massage my feet. Shouldn’t I have to buy her dinner first? We hardly knew each other. This was moving too fast.

She rolled her knuckles gently into the hollow of my foot and suddenly, I felt like my dog does when I scratch that magic spot on her back that sends the dog’s back leg moving at bionic speed, tap, tap, tap on the floor, eyes begging me not to stop.

And, like most things of this nature, it was over too fast.

Miss K followed that up with a little bag of warm pink wax that she mushed around my ugly toes to the point I felt the need for a cigarette, knowing full well I don’t smoke.

When the polish was complete, this earth momma felt a little more grounded. Did I mention Miss K is amazing?

Sandals, you don’t scare me. Bathing suits? Not gonna happen.