Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Last year it was the Summer of Monopoly – a golf shirt the color of every street on a Monopoly board.
In 2009 it was the year of the Hawaiian shirt, whatever I could pilfer off the rack at Walmart.
The three years in between I didn’t venture outside because it was too hot.
This year, I’m opting for flip-flops and shorts.
While I’m still sporting the Monopoly colored golf shirts, I’m adding in really wild colors like “Road Crew Lime Green” and “Cheap Key West Coral.”
The shorts and flip-flops, though, are a definite fashion statement for me as I really have a problem with feet.
I don’t do feet.
Women throw these beach shots up on Facebook where they are reclining in a chaise lounge with the ocean literally at their feet. There is nothing that brings up my breakfast faster than ten freshly painted, sand-encrusted hammer toes.
I’ve long contemplated the origins about my aversion to feet and the best I came up with is some form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder caused by a repressed childhood memory. I’m remembering as a four-year old being asked to change my grandma’s corn pads.
Flip flops are uncomfortable. They even sound uncomfortable, “Flip flop, flip-flop.”
They feel like a massive toe wedgy.
I just don’t like feet, beginning and ending with my own.
I love legs though, and I love legs right down to the ankles accentuated by a nice gold anklet. If the feet are included with the whole leg package, I’m good.
My feet are particularly disturbing.
I have half a toenail missing from my left big toe because of a chronic case of ingrown toenails caused by years of baseball pitching.
This was the toe that for years looked like an Italian chef had stuck a giant raw meatball on my left foot.
This was the toe that sent a student nurse to a new vocation. I told her I was there about my ingrown toe and that I wanted to see the doctor now.
“Not before I get a look at that big toe first, Mister Grumpy Pants,” she replied.
“Suit yourself,” I said and removed my shoe.
I found out what one looks like when one recoils in horror.
This was a woman who dotted her “I’s” with smiley faces. She had this one coming.
I do not feel guilty.
The rest of my toes are almost as bad as the biggun.
I snapped my left ring toe like a dry twig on a tent stake when I was 12, and the right pinky toe I bent back in the opposite direction after stubbing it on a cherry wood table leg.
To get it back in place I had to send the little piggies to the market and made that last little piggy go wee-wee-wee all the way home.
They had to scrape me off the ceiling with a spatula.
So that’s why I hate feet.
My feet are big and ugly.
Imagine what it would look like if Wolverine met Bozo.
And I haven’t even started on the shorts yet.
Let’s just say I used to have good looking legs.Then I got fat.
My legs haven’t seen the light of day in more than 30 years. Some things are not meant to be seen.
So if you are blinded by a flash of bright white from beyond the far horizon this weekend, you know I stepped outside in a pair of shorts.
Or took off my shirt.
And you don’t even want to know what that looks like.