Leper Legs

"C'mon," my friends urged. "Lets get pedicures,"
I didn't want to at first. Why pay all that dough to paint nails that spend most of the day stuffed in old Keds? The lure of soaking my feet in warm soapy water changed my mind.
"Sit here," the lady said, gesturing to the padded chair with a foaming moat at the base. I obeyed, feeling like a princess (or at least a duchess) as I rolled up my jeans.
Then I remembered what was under them.
Last weekend I'd stomped around outdoors in shorts and flipflops and came home riddled with bites from the knees down. Scratch-or-go-crazy bites. My calves were splattered with sores and scabs. The lady did a backwards double take- the kind where you see something startling, catch yourself mid reaction, and pretend there's nothing wrong. I'd gone from princess to Leper Queen in three seconds.
Afterwards I rolled my jeans down and was a princess again. Or at least someone in a princess costume.