OK! OK! I'll Talk!
So I found out yesterday that I am not cut out to be a spy, work in the intelligence community, or generally be trusted with any information that could be considered "top secret," "valuable," or even "juicy." You might want to keep that in mind the next time you're considering divulging anything to me that you want me to guard with my life.
You see, yesterday I went to a podiatrist for the first time because - well, because I could not put it off any longer. For the past six months, or maybe a year, I have been dealing with four ingrown toenails - both of my big toes and both of my 2nd toes. The 2nd toe on my right foot was actually growing like a straw - the kind you drink out of - forming an almost-complete circle so the left and right edges of the toenail were all but touching. And yes, there was a ball of skin being pinched inside this ring. Last week it was finally too much to bear, so I trimmed it, knowing this brief remedy would actually make things much worse - and soon.
So I sucked it up and went to the doctor yesterday to have my toes repaired. The podiatrist, who I will call Dr. Payne, winced when she saw the straw growing out of my toe. "That's what we call a pincher!" she declared. "Don't worry, we'll take care of ya. I'll go get loaded up."
I pondered what that meant while she was gone. She returned with acid, a syringe, a long, sharp skewer, something that looked to me like a lopper, and I don't know what else because she was trying to conceal everything from me.
I'm pretty sure that over the course of the next hour, the Geneva Conventions were violated more than a couple times. She began plunging sharp skewers deep beneath my toenails, laterally splitting the full length of my toenails along the edges, gripping the split pieces and yanking them out (with all her might) at the root, and then dripping acid onto the exposed nail bed - all while cheerfully and casually asking me questions. It was as though Alice had quit her job as the Brady's housekeeper and become an interrogator for al Qaeda.
I asked her, "Are you a sadist who just loves working on toes?" She laughed and shook her head, which I took as a yes.
I said, "This would make a great scene in a horror movie."
"Or a YouTube video!" she added.
When she was done, I looked down at her handiwork: four toes wrapped snugly in blood-red bandages. "Am I bleeding that much?" I asked.
"No no! I used red bandages!" she said. "I'm sorry, I scared you!"
"No," I said. "I'm not squeamish about blood. Just about people touching my toes."
And it's true, I thought later that evening as I lay on my back trying not to think about the pulsating pain coming from the opposite end of my body. Had she been trying to get information out of me, she would not have gotten to rip out four of my toenails. I would have been singing like a bird before she ever touched the first one.
P.S. All joking aside, I want to give my highest recommendation to The Financial District Foot And Ankle Center and the very qualified podiatrist who has saved my toes (whose real name is Dr. Park and who is young, quite lovely, and bears absolutely no resemblance to Ann B. Davis nor a housekeeper circa 1972). I felt nothing but confidence that I was in the most capable hands to be found in the City. And you know what? Jeremy, the office administrator, is pretty awesome too.
If my above story has left you less than convinced, check out their reviews on Yelp - nothing but 5 stars and glowing accolades. That's how I found these great people.
Now, on to the gore:
My bandaged toes... (click image to enlarge)
TMI Alert!!!!
Dr. Payne's handiwork... the "pincher" is the 2nd toe on the right foot. (click image to enlarge)
You see, yesterday I went to a podiatrist for the first time because - well, because I could not put it off any longer. For the past six months, or maybe a year, I have been dealing with four ingrown toenails - both of my big toes and both of my 2nd toes. The 2nd toe on my right foot was actually growing like a straw - the kind you drink out of - forming an almost-complete circle so the left and right edges of the toenail were all but touching. And yes, there was a ball of skin being pinched inside this ring. Last week it was finally too much to bear, so I trimmed it, knowing this brief remedy would actually make things much worse - and soon.
So I sucked it up and went to the doctor yesterday to have my toes repaired. The podiatrist, who I will call Dr. Payne, winced when she saw the straw growing out of my toe. "That's what we call a pincher!" she declared. "Don't worry, we'll take care of ya. I'll go get loaded up."
I pondered what that meant while she was gone. She returned with acid, a syringe, a long, sharp skewer, something that looked to me like a lopper, and I don't know what else because she was trying to conceal everything from me.
I'm pretty sure that over the course of the next hour, the Geneva Conventions were violated more than a couple times. She began plunging sharp skewers deep beneath my toenails, laterally splitting the full length of my toenails along the edges, gripping the split pieces and yanking them out (with all her might) at the root, and then dripping acid onto the exposed nail bed - all while cheerfully and casually asking me questions. It was as though Alice had quit her job as the Brady's housekeeper and become an interrogator for al Qaeda.
I asked her, "Are you a sadist who just loves working on toes?" She laughed and shook her head, which I took as a yes.
I said, "This would make a great scene in a horror movie."
"Or a YouTube video!" she added.
When she was done, I looked down at her handiwork: four toes wrapped snugly in blood-red bandages. "Am I bleeding that much?" I asked.
"No no! I used red bandages!" she said. "I'm sorry, I scared you!"
"No," I said. "I'm not squeamish about blood. Just about people touching my toes."
And it's true, I thought later that evening as I lay on my back trying not to think about the pulsating pain coming from the opposite end of my body. Had she been trying to get information out of me, she would not have gotten to rip out four of my toenails. I would have been singing like a bird before she ever touched the first one.
P.S. All joking aside, I want to give my highest recommendation to The Financial District Foot And Ankle Center and the very qualified podiatrist who has saved my toes (whose real name is Dr. Park and who is young, quite lovely, and bears absolutely no resemblance to Ann B. Davis nor a housekeeper circa 1972). I felt nothing but confidence that I was in the most capable hands to be found in the City. And you know what? Jeremy, the office administrator, is pretty awesome too.
If my above story has left you less than convinced, check out their reviews on Yelp - nothing but 5 stars and glowing accolades. That's how I found these great people.
Now, on to the gore:
TMI Alert!!!!
