Feet don't fail me now

My company brought in a podiatrist on Thursday to give free foot checkups to employees. I take my excitement where I can get it these days.

I have not traditionally paid much attention to my feet. As long as they don’t smell bad and it doesn’t hurt me to walk, I figure they’re ok.

I know a lot of guys these days go get pedicures, and my wife has told me that I should do so, as well. The answer is no. Why don’t you just buy me a poodle and a cardigan and make me watch Dancing With the Stars, while you’re at it.

I remember, as a kid, what my dad’s feet looked like. He didn’t get pedicures. His toenails looked like the trees in the petrified forest. He used a chainsaw to clip them. There were calluses that could stop a bullet. Those were men’s feet.

I subjected my feet to a lot of abuse when I was young, because I didn’t often wear shoes. I learned the art of walking on gravel (step very lightly and slowly), or across hot asphalt (run like somebody is chasing you). I learned it felt good to squish mud between my toes and walk across cool green grass, and it felt bad to step into a pile of fire ants or on a rusty nail.

Going barefoot led to a lot of stubbed toes, or as we called them, stumped toes. Well, whatever you called them, they hurt like crazy, and you always hoped your mama was nowhere near when you did it, because there is no way to stump your toe without immediately screaming a cuss word, or several.

Then there’s that little toe on the end – I believe the technical term is pinky toe, or the last little piggy – and that thing could find the corner of a piece of furniture like a divining rod. I’ve hit that little toe so hard on things before it, it’s a wonder it didn’t just pop right off.

My feet aren’t that bad, but that’s because I lead a cushy life with a soft desk job. And it doesn’t matter anyway. Nobody sees my feet unless I’m at home or at the beach. I don’t wear sandals.

But I needed to go see the podiatrist because I have these two little knots, one on the bottom of each foot, and about half the time it feels like I’m walking on nails. The podiatrist was a very cheerful fellow who told me, between giggles, that I have a corn on one foot, and a plantars wart on the other. He squeezed them, said “I bet this hurts,” and laughed. He needs to work on his stool-side manner.

I asked him if I could just get a pocket knife and cut them off, but he just laughed a little too loud and said, “It won’t do any good, but it will hurt.” While I’ve done many things in my life that fit that description, I think I’ll take his advice and go by the drugstore and see what Dr. Scholl can do for me.