There is something so disgusting, so foul SO UTTERLY DISTURBING on my person that I almost contemplated not sharing it. But I share everything else, to the point that it makes me uncomfortable. With the exception of the truly introspective pieces that I leave to Brittany-- her sweetness and affirmativeness and introspectiveness is stomachable and lovable because I know her and love her but rest assured if I didn’t know her I’d think those musings unbearably sappy and I’d want to send that person an internet smackupsidethehead so they could shutthehellup about it already. Lovey-ness has always made me uncomfortable and it is only tolerated in the ones that I love because I know I need that perspective to give depth to my callous ways. And yet STILL I share vastly inappropriate pieces of information. And share. And share. Perhaps I have displaced my dependency on the nicotine with the dependency on the internet sharing. Hoping that someday, someone, somewhere will start a world-wide coalition to ban me from all societies of internet bloggers because I JUST SHARE TOO GODAMN MUCH.
It started with a wee bump on the side of my moderately delicate second toe, the one that is longer than my Big Toe. I add this in because I hear it indicates riches and whatnot and if for some reason I was supposed to be on the Second Toe Is Longer Than Big Toe list and was, in fact, accidentally left off, then I can certainly do my absolute best to notify The Powers That Be of their oversight.
The wee little bump was beside the nail, a minor mystery in my world, one that necessitated an action of absolutely nothing because LET’S BE HONEST it was just a wee little bump.
But then the wee little bump became two, then three little bumps. And they kind of banded together to show a united front blossoming out from the side of my toe, nestling alongside my to-the-quick short nail. At this point I pointed it out to my doctor during one of my visits back when I sick for about 17 weeks in a row. His response?
“Looks like athlete’s foot bumps.”
He recommended getting an athlete foot spray- even after I informed him that I’d HAD athlete’s foot in the past (oh yes, let you’re gagging begin- but it was back in the day of four hour dance rehearsals and mass changing rooms so IT WAS SO NOT MY FAULT) and whatever this was, these little obnoxious bumps growing slowly and steadily, were definitely not a side-effect of athlete’s foot.
So I went home and did nothing.
About a month later I noticed four more wee bumps on the pad of my toe, these being separate from the mother ship and obviously making a go of it on their own. I’m happy to report that the little offshoots must have found conditions to their liking because though they didn’t sprout off any more wee little bumps, they CERTAINLY GREW IN SIZE to the tune of me being quite concerned about the utter scariness happening on this one square centimeter of my body.
So I decided to be proactive and telephoned my mother, the one who so blithely informed me last year that my super delicate pinkie toe pain was due to inappropriate shoes and a disposition to the cringe inducing word of CORNS. So obviously her weird foot thing knowledge was going to be vast.
Her Words of Wisdom indicated that I may have something more revolting than CORNS.
OH MY GOD JUST TYPING THAT WORD OUT MAKES THE BILE RISE IN THE BACK OF MY THROAT AND PLAY TAG WITH MY TONSILS.
So I dutifully schlepped to the nearest Kroger to buy some *gag* wart remover. I settled on the kind that comes in liquid form that you paint on twice a day. Because I wasn’t paying $25 for the freeze off thingamabob and I knew the chances of those little bandaid things staying on were, um, NONE. So paint-on remover it was.
The first couple of days nothing much happened. I followed the instructions to wash and dry my feet before applying the mixture twice daily. I waited until it formed a weird shell-like coating on my toe before putting my socks on. I did this for a week and a half* before I noticed on Saturday that something sinister was definitely afoot.
*The box said to apply for up to twelve weeks and hopefully after reading the next few paragraphs you’ll understand why I find that UTTERLY FRIGHTENING.
My Saturday was spent out at the 4-H center working for the nursery I normally work for on Sundays. Some kind of Holy Spirit Lord of the Rings and All Else That Is Holy Retreat Weekend. Not that I’m being sarcastic, I really do think it’s great that people are religious. I’m only being wanky because I had to take care of their kids from 9am-5pm in a wide open room with a non-working TV, three basketballs and a puzzle. Trust me when I tell you that this DOES NOT entertain seventeen kids between the ages of 7months to 15years AT ALL.
After coming home I took off my shoes to, well, be at home. I don’t wear shoes in the house. Not out of some idea that my house must remain clean, more because I don’t like shoes and I know who’s stepped on my floor. So I sat on my bed and tucked my feet under my knees to converse with the kittycats because Mommy had had a long day and wanted to curl up and look at cute furry faces and wet noses. But when I moved my feet over the sheets, something felt notquiteright. Something was catching on the sheets. And it was bordering on being OH SO uncomfortable.
Upon further inspection I found that the offending object that was catching on my sheets was MY TOE. Specifically, THE SKIN ON MY TOE.
The skin had actually started to SLOUGH OFF where I’d placed that day’s application of *gag* wart remover liquid.
I sat on my bed, toe in lap, fixated with what was happening to my now VERY DELICATE second toe. The skin OH THE SKIN was COMING OFF and WHAT WAS I TO DO.
Well, pull it off, of course. Can’t have that shit just hanging about like that.
So I removed it.
And I almost threw up in the process from both the pain and the sheer disgusting-ness of it.
And then I stared at it in total fixation. Who knew that’s what your foot looks like under the skin?
And then I almost threw up again.
And then I had to go to work Sunday morning in flip flops, raggedy toe hanging out covered in faux Neosporin.
And then the girls in the nursery made gagging noises until one of them had the presence of mind to bring out the first aid kit and force a handful of bandaids in my direction.
And then every single 2-year-old wanted to play with my boo-boo toe, which prompted me to hide it from the vicious mongrels by sitting in the corner cradling my foot in lap.
Just like the chickens, I DO NOT JUDGE YOU FOR NEVER RETURNING TO VISIT ME AGAIN.