Fanfare for the Common Man
I don’t do feet
I have this phobia about feet, what you would call an anti-foot fetish. My dislike of feet begins and ends with my own two.
I have Bozo feet. I look down at these long fellows and imagine big, floppy, red shoes stuck on them, and then I think Bozo the Clown.
But this is about feet, not clowns. Feet are the complete antithesis for my love of legs and I have always been a “leg man.” It’s not so much feet as it is feet by themselves.
Maybe my dislike of feet stems from early childhood incidents when I’d be asked to peel the corn pads off my grandmother’s big toe knuckles. Only intense psychotherapy can answer that question.
I want to know from where did the practice of taking pictures of one’s feet, usually at the beach or by the pool, and posting them on Facebook originate?
There is nothing worse than booting up your Facebook page first thing in the morning to see a big, chunky pair of feet and cankles usually with the toes painted some hideous shade of purple. Purple toenails remind me of my own ingrown toes and nobody should have to see that.
I had a chronic ingrown nail that gave me fits for years. One day, I finally had enough and went to see the doctor.
My doctor had a nursing intern working that day and it was she who had been tasked with the pre-doctor screening.
Poor thing. She did not know with whom she was dealing. Her name was Mandy, a sprite little thing all full of vim, vigor and the boundless enthusiasm of youth.
“So how are we today?” Mandy asked.
I replied that I had an ingrown toenail and needed to have it cut out.
“Are we depressed, Daniel?”
No one calls me Daniel except my mother when I’m about to get grounded – and yes, at 54, I’m still capable of being grounded – so Mandy and I did not get off on the right foot, no pun intended.
I told her again, “No, I have an ingrown toenail.”
“You know we have pills that will help make you happy,” Mandy continued, undeterred. “Everybody deserves happiness in their lives. You should try them.”
I replied that I was not an expressively happy kind of guy and she should not take this fact personally. I said I simply wanted somebody to look at my ingrown toenail and refer me to a podiatrist.
Mandy then offered one of those three-year old pouts and said in a Shirley Temple voice, “Well, if you insist Mister Grumpy. Let’s take a look at this toe.”
While at first I felt it best that Mandy the Intern not see my ingrown big toenail, by this point I felt she deserved to, so I happily complied.
My big toe looked like a raw hamburger meatball.
“Omigod,” Mandy the Intern gasped and visibly recoiled.
She shuddered and seemed to force down that morning’s breakfast.
“Lemmegetthedoctor,” she muttered and raced from the examination room.
When the doctor returned, Mandy the Intern did not.
I asked, what happened to Mandy?
The doctor, who regarded me with a look of disdain that seemed to say, “Was that really necessary?” replied that Mandy had decided to seek another vocation besides nursing.
That’s a shame, I told the doctor, seeing how I found Mandy so friendly and refreshing.
Of course that’s when the doctor noticed I was overdue for a prostate exam and I felt it wise to shut up at this point.
Good interns are hard to come by apparently.