It all goes back to an experience I had in Bellingham...Ahem...back up. It all goes back to when I was born.
It was October of 1984. My mom was birthing me and I came out screaming and kicking. It was then that the doctor noticed that I had a "kick" unlike any baby. He took one glance at my foot as I fluttered my feet to and fro, and his eye was almost taken out by my giant, mighty, right toe. Extra bones had formed when I was in the womb, making it wider than most toes, with a larger than life nail, fating me for low self-esteem. Offended that he almost lost an eye, and to an infant no less, he shouted, "We must fix her at once!" I remember this clearly.
Since babies can't have anesthesia he thought it best that he operate immediately to punish me. He cut open my toe, and I took it like a champ. He took out the extra bones, and STILL left me with the biggest right toe anyone has ever seen in the history of big right toes. I was a great soccer player because of it. I got more surface area on the ball, so I could kick it pretty far.
Anyway, I grew up being really self-conscious of my feet. I wore socks with sandals, not because I grew up in Washington, but because I didn't want anyone to randomly walk up to me and say, "My, what a big toe you have." My mom had already convinced me I was going to clown college. I used to have nightmares about clowns and carnies dancing around me to circus music. In my adult years, when I confronted my mom about this cruelty she replied, "I was just trying to give you a sense of humor about it!" Ha. Ha. Ha.
Pool parties were awkward. I always stayed in the water until I was a prune. I wore aqua socks once I got out of the pool - as if I wasn't awkward enough. And in my homecoming picture, I wasn't wearing shoes, so I was busy sitting on my red-headed, pimply-faced date's lap with my left foot on top of my right foot so that my toe could not be documented in the high school year book. I couldn't go any lower on the social totem pole as it was. I didn't need any deformities to bury me underground completely.
Eventually, I came to the realization that there was not anything I could do to fix my toe. I could sulk and hide and worry about it for the rest of my life- or I could celebrate and have a coming out party- which is exactly what I did.
I was loud, proud and flashing my big toe around town. With a little encouragement from my mom, I went to get my first pedicure at the age of 20. I was surprised at how nice the lady was to me and she didn't even treat me different because of my toe. My mom must have slipped her a 20 and begged her to touch my feet when I wasn't looking.
I began going regularly to this salon to get pedicures without incident.
But when I moved to Bellingham, it all changed.
My roommates and I needed to relax after a particularly stressful finals week. In addition to drinking ourselves into a stupor, I suggested we go get pedicures beforehand. We found a place that accepted the coupons offered in the university's quarterly student coupon book. Mistake number one: Discount pedicures are like discount plastic surgeries. You get what you pay for.
Excited and oblivious, we practically skipped to Le Nail. Mistake Number Two: Do not go to a place that means one nail in French and employs not one French person. Maybe my subconscious told me they'd do a really great job on my big toe. That was one arduous nail to paint, right? One nail? Le Nail?
My roommates and I relaxed as we placed our feet in the bubbling blue water, pretending we were somewhere tropical, rather than in a dingy nail salon. Then the Vietnamese man - yes, a male pedicurist- pointed to my foot as a signal that he was ready to begin his life's work.
My toe emerged from the water in slow motion, like the Loch Ness Monster revealing it's identity to mankind for the first time. The man's eyes widened and he immediately began speaking rapidly in Vietnamese. Whatever he was saying sounded like an emergency, but I couldn't really tell because all conversations in Vietnamese sound like it's an emergency to me. So initially, I thought nothing of it and continued pretending I was in Fiji.
That's when the only two employees emerged from the back room and rushed over to my seat. They all stood over my toe and gawked. Was this really happening? The man began pointing and talking rapidly with the other two female employees. I couldn't believe this- my worst fears coming to fruition. No matter what they were saying, it translated into "FREAK!!" in my head. My years of wearing socks with sandals began to come back to me.
"Look," said one lady finally. "I have injury too." She put her mangled arm inches in front of my face. What the fuck was this? It looked like it had gone through a wood-chipper. No way in hell was my toe anywhere close to being similar to that woman's butchered limb. How dare she try to relate! I was not the missing star to their freak show. I suddenly heard circus music and had visions of carnies again. I shuddered.
Looking back, I think she was only trying to sympathize. Maybe her birth doctor decided to mess up her arm too. Whatever the reason, I was not paying $15 to be a cheap show at Le Nail. But I was also shocked, I didn't know how to stop it. Eventually they all subsided to their respective pedicure and manicure stations, but would occasionally glance at my toe to see how much paint the man used on my enormous nail.
I left Le Nail that day a scarred and broken woman. It took me months to gain back the confidence I had at my coming out party. But I'm proud to say, I have made a full recovery and can now care less about people seeing my toe. In fact, I graced the massage chair last weekend at World Nail in Issaquah. My toe gets around.
So let this be a lesson to you all: sticks and stones may break your bones, but deformities don't have to scar you ;o)
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