Caution: this is a story about feet–or, more specifically, blistered feet. This story is not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach.
So after Cyndi gave me the frozen bananas, we went to Golden Gardens for a nice long walk. I’d had a miserable day and was in bad need of a sympathetic ear, some exercise and fresh air. Sure, it was tempting to just sit at home and have a nice glass of scotch, but I didn’t. But now, after losing skin and sleep, I’m wishing I would have given in to temptation.
The walk was enjoyable—beautiful summer sky, a nice breeze, lots of friendly dogs here and there. But I was wearing sandals, you see, and was not prepared to walk in the sand. Once I get sand inside my shoes it does not come out. And so it starts to chafe, and then dig into my skin. On our second lap around the park my big toe started saying something, and then it began to whimper. We moved from the beach to the sidewalk, I sat down, dumped the sand from my shoes and found that I had a blister on the bottom of my big toe. The blister had popped and left a flap of skin and underneath that skin was sand, grinding away at my delicate dermis.
When I got home I found out much of the sand couldn’t just be wiped away. Nor could it be soaked away. It had ground its way into my skin, much as a piece of glass or a splinter will do. I did work some of it away, but there are bits that are trapped between layers one and two of my big toe’s skin.
And it hurts.
And so I hobble.
And if it becomes infected I will freak out. My big toe is my favorite. It is, after all, the one who went to market.