Ode to My Big Toenail

Hey, Big Guy. Let me start with an apology.

I’m sorry I dropped a 45-pound plate on you over a month ago. I know I fling weights around at the gym haphazardly and without regard for anyone’s safety but my own. I’m sorry.

There. I said it. So can we end this already?

I mean, even that day I knew it was over between us. The limping, the grimacing, the whining. And now it’s been over a month, and your demise is not only inevitable, it’s visually apparent. I won’t go into details about the color and texture of your death, but let’s just say it’s not pretty.

You’re not pretty.

And I don’t know if you have ever noticed, but my feet ARE pretty. I take a lot of pride in them, and I simply cannot take care of them the way I’d like to when you’re still hanging on for dear life.

Listen, normally I wouldn’t care. Normally I’d say, “Sure, what the hell, take your time!” I mean, why force the issue? But here’s the problem: My spring break is in less than four weeks. I need to be ready. I need my eyebrows tweezed, my pores cleaned, my hair highlighted, my muscles kneaded, my nether regions, er, landscaped.

I need a day of beauty, dammit!

And I need a pedicure. I need a freaking pedicure before I board a plane for Florida and talk in front of hundreds of people. But I can’t GET a pedicure, because of you.

I know I could take matters into my own hands, but I’m trying to avoid that. I never picked scabs or popped pimples, and I’m not going to start now.

I guess what I’m looking for here is a compromise. I promise to never fling heavy weights on top of you again, and you promise to go away as soon as possible. Every morning I wake up and think, “This is the day.” But it never is.

Please consider my plea. It’ll work out for all of us, in the end. I promise.