Don't Tell Me My Toes Are Nasty

Thank God. I can finally reach my toenails. They were growing into little claws that caught on my sheets. Mike and Nick had a long argument over who had to help me trim them. I even threatened to get another pedicure. We're trying to save money after our summer spending spree. That motivated Mike to argue more vigorously, but it didn't motivate him to capitulate to Nick's resistance. I held it out there - a pedicure. I hate pedicures. In my lifetime, I've had two. With the first, I just assumed that the woman was ham-fisted and vigorous about the cleanliness of my nasty little toes. Just in case I was wrong, I waited eighteen years before agreeing to go with a friend for another. This guy was a little gentler, but I couldn't get over the concept that a Korean man was hovering over my toes. There are so many cultural issues about kneeling in front of someone and about touching people's feet. Even my own family wouldn't do it, so it was incredibly awkward to have this immigrant, a man no less, caring for my toes.

And it still didn't feel all that good. I guess toenail clipping has so much potential for pain. And don't come near me with that exfoliating scrub.

So, when my new physical therapist told me to start stretching out in front and to the side, I thought I'd give my toes a shot. It took three days to stretch my shoulder to reach that far, but I did it. Now, my sweet little toes are nestled comfortably in a row in my wooly socks, finally shorn of their nasty claws.

It's about time. I'm going for a hike today.

Thank you for listening, jb