The Piggy That Should Have Gone To Market, But Chose To Stay Home

I have a funny toe. It is not witty, as I have yet to hear it utter anything audible, let alone amusing. It is funny, in that it is ugly and misshapen, and odd. I had multiple ingrown toe-nails as a child, and eventually internalized their recurrence as a character flaw, hiding -- sometimes for months -- the re-affliction and its resultant phalangelical gore till my limp was too pronounced to hide and a bloody sock discovered. When it was eventually decided that I, and my rogue toe, would apparently not comport with social niceties, it was determined that something final would need to be done. And so it is that, nearly twenty years ago, the big toe on my right foot underwent a procedure whereby its nail (the alleged protector which turned against it time and again) was forced to capitulate in this tiny war of attrition -- deadened, by medical procedure, from ever again attempting unpredictable and unfettered growth. Today that same big toe on my right foot, never quite recovered from its battles against infection, still wears the tell-tale battle scars of unnatural redness and a disproportionate swelling which make it look like it was severely beaten by (or went on a really painful bender with) its buddy toe. A visual which is only exacerbated by the fact that there is only a stubby block of a nail residing on it -- short and stout, fierce and pugnacious -- even in its ugliness, kept around more for its aesthetic value (it can still take a coat of paint better than skin could) than for any legitimate protection it might offer.

The toe, like its owner is -- in short -- funny: Funny-looking, Funny-amusing, Funny-odd, and sometimes, Funny-grotesque. When I was younger, the toe vexed me. All I could see was the Funny-grotesque, and I couldn't look away. Sandals were only worn with a band-aid muzzling it. Were it to be exposed, it was quickly accompanied by a meandering confession surrounding its child-and-small-animal frightening condition. I was a toe apologist. How could I not be? I spent so much time looking at it, obsession was inevitable. These days, I am more sanguine about the toe. It is odd looking, there is no denying it, but I tend to favor the fact that Funny-grotesque can be interpreted as Funny-charming, at least if you squint hard enough. Open-toed shoes, flip flops, bare footedness -- all non-issues. I do keep the toe dressed in an array of colorful polishes, but beyond that concession to vanity (and not unreasonable standard maintenance) it stands out there for the world to see. Generally, if and when I am called upon to tell the story of the toe, I usually start and end the story with, "I had recurring in-grown toe nails as a child." And leave it at that. Given that it is a toe, and that it looks odd, but isn't exciting enough to actually be missing or to be some freak genetic anomaly, there are usually no follow up questions.

If anyone was brave (or maybe, more appropriately, bored) enough to ask a follow-up question -- Okay, I understand that was the condition, but how exactly did it end up looking like *that*? -- I might be left to address the fact that I have long ignored and therefore not pondered its answer: I let it get that way. Why? The shame of the Toe -- even that child-like self-consciousness not easy, never simple. It's outward appearance was embarrassment enough; to share that my own behavior was what made it that way -- absolutely unbearable.

Even with the powers of hindsight, delusions of adulthood, and six figures worth of professional abbreviations after my name, I cannot for the life of me tell you why I went for months (I don't remember exactly how long -- it could have even been a year, though probably not more than that) with my big toe as a continual, open and oozing wound, always inflamed, never not painful. I wedged it into shoes, I forced it on hikes, I never let it out from its bindings, as people might see it. I never told anyone. Never. And I probably never would have. I only have the toe still affixed to my person today because I was discovered. The parents of five kids finally realized their odd eldest daughter who only owned gym socks was hand-washing them all before putting them in the laundry. It is one of the few times that I can really remember my parents being angry at me. My father yelled. My mother yelled. Two different languages -- but the tone and message were the same. What were you thinking? Again, to this day, I don't know.

Their anger was fueled by my having put myself in physical jeopardy, but moreso, because of the nonsensical nature of having done so. To what end? Why hide it? How was it my fault? Again, all I have is hindsight to rely upon here, and I clumsily impress it upon the fuzzy past. I must have thought it was my fault, and I wanted to make it right on my own. I kept hoping it would go away. I soaked it in the tub during showers, hoping a little attention in the face of the daily tortures I inflicted on it would be enough. It didn't get better, and yet I persevered. I must have thought it was my fault, but again, why?

I cannot empathize with my 9 year old self. I want to, but I can't. I have no idea where she was coming from on this. I wish I did.

The again, generally, where has excessive navel gazing about my own motivations in life ever gotten me? Obsessed and embarrassed; and, of course, hiding. Always hiding.

And so, as to so many other subsequent issues in my life, it seems that I can only hope that, eventually -- with their irrationality inevitably, undeniably, splayed out before me -- I can look back on them and just have no idea what I was thinking. After all it is only a toe.

Fingers (and stumpy toes) crossed that it doesn't require bloody wounds, last ditch medical procedures, or another twenty years to get to that point.

Better Living Through Quackery

From today's LA Times:

Libra (Sept. 23-Oct. 23). You're freeing yourself from old behavior. Flaws that you let go of long ago may resurface in moments of stress. Be patient. Transformation happens in stages.