Footloose

      I went to the podiatrist the other day. I go at least once a month to keep my feet healthy. The good doctor treated me for my sprained ankle last Spring. My podiatrist knows about my activity. He knows that I jog. He knows that I 5K. He knows that I abuse my feet. When I first started to visit him, I was having the worst heel spur ever. In addition to shots with a giant needle, I get paraffin wax, ultrasound and bandage wrap. The good doctor tsk tsk me when doing my pedicure. There are many callouses and corns from all of the stress my feet take on walking my butt around the city.
      So when I was in his office the other day, he found an in grown toe nail on the side of my big toe and insisted on removing it right away with no needles. He sprayed the cold spray and I gritted my teeth as he cut me open with a scalpel and cut out this annoying piece of nail. So I am wearing a band-aid on my toe for a few days. This band-aid is my trophy. My band of courage for taking the many steps I take walking, jogging, 5K-ing. These toes were made for walking.