Saga of the Great Toe
A couple of years back (yes, that says years...it could have been as many as three), I had what I think might have been an in-grown toenail. I checked out the information I could find on the great and mighty internet, and then set about fixing said toenail. It did not seem so bad, considering the nail in question was on my right big toe. The great toe should be easy to fix, I thought...it is large and easy to work with. I packed the nail with some cotton each day, made sure to keep my foot clean, and went about my business.
Then, something fell on that poor toe. It has been so long, I don't remember what object actually fell on it, but that fall started a series of unfortunate events, if I might borrow a phrase from Mr. Snicket. The dog stepped on that toe; the kids stepped on that toe; I dropped a large can on that toe; I managed to get the nail caught in the floorboard when I went from kneeling to standing; I banged the big toe into several door frames. Each time the nail started to recover, I'd send it back to the beginning.
My great toe mesmerized the kids.
Yes, on Monday night, I barely brushed the right toe against my left foot. It was enough. I cringed, I wanted to curse, I did not want to look. I slowly pulled my foot onto the chair, and wiggled the nail. It hung on by a thread. In the end, I had to twist the nail to remove it, and used a nail clipper to help. I thought about taking a picture of the nail, and my now tender toe, but I thought better of it. Some things, you just don't need to see.
You might wonder why I even bothered to post about this. I really can't say, to be honest. But this blog is a place for me to get out my thoughts and feelings, and this toe has born the brunt of so many things, I thought it best to recount the story here.
Then, something fell on that poor toe. It has been so long, I don't remember what object actually fell on it, but that fall started a series of unfortunate events, if I might borrow a phrase from Mr. Snicket. The dog stepped on that toe; the kids stepped on that toe; I dropped a large can on that toe; I managed to get the nail caught in the floorboard when I went from kneeling to standing; I banged the big toe into several door frames. Each time the nail started to recover, I'd send it back to the beginning.
My great toe mesmerized the kids.
"Why is the nail cracked, mom?" they'd ask.Then, they'd crouch down and check out my toenail. It was quite the sight. Multiple layers of nail peeked out from my nail polish. The top half held the old layers of nail, lacquered with red; the bottom half showed a new nail starting to grow. I tried to keep the nail covered in red paint most of the time, so that the large purple-yellow color of the skin beneath the nail did not show through. The public should have thanked me for doing that, I might add. In any case, that new nail in the bottom layer was a nice white color, until I beefed the nail one last time.
"Because people keep stepping on my toe," I replied.
"Why?" One of them said.
"I don't know! You tell me."
Yes, on Monday night, I barely brushed the right toe against my left foot. It was enough. I cringed, I wanted to curse, I did not want to look. I slowly pulled my foot onto the chair, and wiggled the nail. It hung on by a thread. In the end, I had to twist the nail to remove it, and used a nail clipper to help. I thought about taking a picture of the nail, and my now tender toe, but I thought better of it. Some things, you just don't need to see.
You might wonder why I even bothered to post about this. I really can't say, to be honest. But this blog is a place for me to get out my thoughts and feelings, and this toe has born the brunt of so many things, I thought it best to recount the story here.
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