Foot Fetish

Warning: this posting may be a bit TMI about my feet. Feel free to read or not read. But if you do, be prepared. Nighmares may ensue.

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I have decided to train for the Little Rock half-marathon. But before I subject my feet to another round of pavement-pounding punishment, I decided to go see a podiatrist to help mitigate my foot problems. And a whole lot of problems there are--my feet are flat as pancakes and wide as a Winnebago. Worst of all, I've got bunions so large that K is convinced that they've got heartbeats of their own.

So, there I was at the podiatrist's office, sitting with my shoes and socks off when the doctor walked in. After he shook my hand and introduced himself, he looked over my feet and promptly exclaimed, "WOW! Look at these bunions! Goodness, they're huge! Do they hurt?"

Me: "Umm...not really."
Doc: "Well those are really something else. They look like they should hurt."

Jeeze, thanks, Doc. Without bunions, you wouldn't be in business, buddy.

As the doctor started pulling my feet this way and that,  I noticed that he was not wearing any gloves. How gross. I can't imagine having to touch other people's sweaty, stinky feet all day long. And that's when I remembered that I had just shaken his hand, which meant that unless he had washed his hands before seeing me, I probably now had a half-a-dozen sets of foot funk doing the happy dance on my right palm.

And then the good doctor does something unimaginable. He gets an itch, and the fingers that had moments before kneaded my feet started inching towards his left eye.

Holy crap. Don't do it, man.

Yet his hand continued to move up, until it reached under his glasses and there he was, scratching and rubbing his foot-funked fingers across his eyelids.

Sweet Baby Jesus. I am simultaneously fascinated and skeeved out.

The rest of the visit was uneventful. After I was measured for my orthotics, I went off on my merry little way to the nearby bathroom, where I fervently scrubbed the funk off of my hands.