I need to buy a pair of steel-toed boots. Not because I have finally decided to head out on my motorcycle and retroactively kick the ass of all the guys (and girls) who have ever wronged me, but because I am apparently not coordinated enough to walk down the street without hurting myself.
Last Friday I was walking to work and smashed my toe on a crack in the sidewalk. It hurt, the nail turned purple, and I'm pretty sure it's going to fall off. I'm pretty sure it's going to fall off because this is the third time I have done something like this in the past year. The first time I wouldn't even look at the nail. I could tell something was very wrong because it didn't stop throbbing for three days and I could barely put my shoes on. Instead of doing something reasonable like attempting to assess the damage and try to figure out if I'd broken something, I decided I didn't want to know and spent the next month applying about thirty coats of bright red nail polish.
Eventually my curiosity got to me and I took the polish off to reveal something that looked like it belonged to a dead person. The entire nail was yellow with white streaks and a few days later it got super loose and wobbly and I had to pull it off. I spent the rest of the summer painting the skin on my toe red so that I could wear sandals without causing anyone to vomit when they saw my foot.
My only saving grace this time is that it's Fall and therefore the only person who will have to deal with my deformity is the guy I'm dating. I would feel embarrassed, but I generally figure having to stifle whatever mild disgust a guy or girl might experience in facing down my various pimples, blisters, and zombie-like appendages is just part of the trade-off if they want to sleep with me.
And I wonder how I stayed single for so long . . .
1 comment:
don't try to act like this is a new phenomenon, I know better -- don't you remember our band, 'my bad toe'?
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