So I figured it was time to get in shape, what with my sister getting engaged and knowing that I'll need to look svelte in a bridesmaid gown to impress all those people I haven't seen in years. (Darwin says, "What, it's not enough to look good for me?" Sorry, hon.) My plan was to go down to the rec center this weekend and renew my membership and start the sleek-ifying right away.
Actually, I spent this weekend limping around the house, yelping in agony and barely able to walk. Was my malady something romantic like a sprained ankle or an ingrown toenail? No. I suffered from plantar warts.
Even the word "wart" sounds disgusting. It conjures up images of frowsy crones muttering over steaming cauldrons and cackling, "Eat the apple, my pretty!" or "And your little dog too!" Well, I'm not ashamed to say it. Wart. Wart. One on the heel of my right foot, and one on the ball of my left foot.
The podiatrist, a fresh-faced fellow who admired my baby and told me all about his, swabbed something brownish on each spot and told me that by Saturday morning I might feel "a little sore". Understatement of the year, doc. By breakfast time my feet were burning and stinging and stabbing each time I applied any pressure to the afflicted areas (by, say, walking). The girls thought it was delightful that I hobbled around on the ball of one foot and the heel of another, and limped cheerfully around the house in imitation. "Does it hurt, mommy?" asked one, jabbing my heel. My voice rose several octaves. Clearly I had underestimated the importance of the bottom of my feet.
But at least I saved on the gym membership fee, what?
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