Agony of Da Feet

Continued

And yet...I was curious. How did a man wind up loving an occasional toe-tweaking?

My co-worker told me about the Calgon powers of feet treatment. Feet doctors didn't just nip away reckless toe nails. Oh no. They soak the feet. Scrub away crust between the toes. Massage the phalanges, heels, ankles, calf muscles—the whole nine.

He reminded me how our ground stompers got it rough. What other extremity makes steady contact with hard surfaces while carrying the full weight of the human body? In most cases, feet are crammed in tight quarters we call shoes or high-heels, the humidity an African jungle, intensifying a funk that could clear a room when set free.

Feet do have it rough. A little TLC wouldn't hurt.

That night, I pulled the shoes off, my sock snagging a chipped piece of Plexiglas disguised as a toenail. Strips of scaly hard skin pealed off the balls of my ten-in-a-halves. "Calluses" they call it, aka clumps of skin long passed on. My right big toe was a half-healed victim of blunt-force trauma from playing basketball, its nail detached, departed and deranged.

My feet. Boy, boy, boy. Not quite "Hammer Time," but still in need of a rescue mission.

I told my girlfriend "Lisa" about my co-worker's pedicure visits. To my surprise, she replied, "so? Men get their feet done all the time at my salon."

Agony of Da Feet continued pg. 3 of 4