Slender, high-arched, with perfect toes and toenails, my feet are my
best feature. Their unwrinkled skin is uncalloused, unscarred, and
unhairy.
That is why the pain in my toes terrified me. First I denied it. Then I
tried to walk it off. I asked Norm, my husband of 23 years, if my toes
looked funny.
Norm poked his head up from the sports section, peered at my foot over
his half-glasses, and said "Nope."
When the home cures, the ice bags and cold compresses, the soaking,
failed; I sought the counsel of my best friend, a hypochondriac. She
knew every medical provider in a five-county radius. I told her my toes
hurt.
"Your slender, beautiful toes with the perfect nails?" she asked.
"Yes."
"You must consult Dr. Frick. He did my bunions."
Ah, yes, her bunions. I drove her to her bunionectomy. Her feet looked
better without the pink Brussels sprout-like protuberances, but they
would never be beautiful.
I called Dr. Frick's office for an appointment. Meanwhile, the pain
intensified. My toes felt as if they were pushing against the tips of
my shoes. Could I be outgrowing my elegant size 6's?
"Can a person's foot grow bigger?" I asked Norm.
"If a person's butt can grow bigger, I guess her foot can too."
I prepared carefully for my first podiatric appointment, removing the
red polish and buffing my toenails to a high gloss. In the examination
room, I removed my Mephisto sandals and double-checked my pedicure. It
shone with classic simplicity.
On entering the room, Dr. Frick nodded at me, took my foot in his cool,
manicured hands, and pinched my toes. "Does it hurt here? Does it hurt
when I do this?" he murmured.
While Dr. Frick examined my toes, I examined him. He rested my foot
against his thigh. My toes arched against his pant leg. He had red hair
that was moussed into short spikes and a red goatee. His body appeared
otherwise hairless, slim, and sinewy. He pulled lightly on each toe and
flicked it. Why hadn't Norm ever thought of doing this, I wondered.
Frick looked nothing like Norm. He looked like Satan. I was attracted.
"Ingrown toenails."
That was simply not possible. I wore $150 on each foot to avoid such
peasanty problems.
"Peasants have good feet from going shoeless. I will have to avulse
your grand and index toenails," he said.
I rushed home to look up "avulse": "to tear away a body part."
"NOOORRRRMMM. Dr. Frick says I need an avulsion."
"Don't get all upset. We've already decided against more kids."
"He's going to rip my toenails off," I wailed.
"Now, honey," he said, as he set the sports section on the floor and
motioned me to sit on his lap. He took my foot in his large, warm
hands. He touched my grand toe.
"This little piggy went to market," he said, as I snuggled more deeply
into his hairy arms.
