My feet have always been extremely ticklish. Despite this unfortunate fact, I also like having presentable tootsies. And I don't enjoy doing my own nails.
So, in spite of myself, I get a pedicure almost every month. I've never enjoyed the process, never relaxed into a puddle of skin and bones and surrendered like other people in massage chairs. I've treated pedis more like maintenance, like oil changes. I throw down rules at the start, asking politely that the technician doesn't mess with the bottom of my feet because I will erupt in a tickle fit and kick her in the face. This eliminates key parts of the service — the callous scraping, the heel peel, any element of massage or reflexology. I don't think I've ever gotten my money's worth.
Until now. In a spurt of incredible midlife personal growth, I recently decided to quit being ticklish. Yes, that's right. I stopped cold turkey the way some people put down cigarettes and never pick them up again.
Why are humans ticklish? It's complicated, and the Cleveland Clinic reports that it's akin to a fight-or-flight response. Being tickled lights up the hypothalamus, the almond-sized part of the brain in charge of emotions and self-preservation. Squirming and laughing when sensitive areas are manhandled is likely a reply to a perceived threat. Still, the phenomenon is "surprisingly complex and somewhat mysterious."
I'd noticed my foot sensitivity decreasing year over year. After more than a decade together, I no longer go full Ninja Turtle if my husband squeezes my foot. During a sports massage earlier this year, the therapist started in on my feet, which I wasn't expecting. It wasn't my favorite, but it wasn't that bad, either.
Last week, as I sat in the pedicure chair about to launch into my ground rules, I thought, wait. What if I just see what happens? The tech had put me at ease and seemed fully in control. I had my paperback novel and soft music in my earbuds. I had time. And moreover, I was an adult with power over her faculties. I could do this.
So I just stopped. Right there in the chair. I stopped being ticklish. The tech did the whole shebang with the scrubber and the pumice, and I barely blinked. The massage was heavenly, and for the first time ever, I didn't want to leave.
Was this affliction always in my head? Was I holding onto a myth about myself, and why? Was being ticklish and hating pedicures some pick-me quality I had developed, something I thought made me interesting or different? Was anything real? And if I could control my tickle response, what else was I capable of?
I tipped extra and walked out of there like Nicole Kidman in this photo.
Upon word of my personal growth, a friend correctly said, "This is how 'The Devil Wears Prada 2' should have ended." I came home and announced to my family that I had news, that I was no longer ticklish, that I had powered through my hypothalamus demons. They did not believe me, so I stuck out a foot. They attempted a tickle, and I sat there like the Terminator, unbothered, with feet of steel and freshly gelled electric-blue toes.
I am free, and I will be back.
