There’s a lot to be said about feet, but the main thing is this: they’re where they belong. Probably my favourite thing about the human body is that feet are kept well away from me, down on the ground where I can tread on them day after day, and that’s where they should be, because they are gross. They do their job, but so do self-serve checkouts, and they definitely shouldn’t expect any respect from me.
So that’s the way the cookie crumbles, but now my feet are crumbling, metaphorically, and I have to get myself a podiatrist. A foot specialist. A Cheltenham foot specialist. And that…is terrible. Well, no, it isn’t…I can go to Southland, maybe pick myself up a latte, see if Insanitary is selling the season 564 DVD of Week of Our Lives, and you know I never get to go shopping. I could take the day off work and have a lovely day trip.
But anyway…seeing a podiatrist. There’s a dichotomy there: my respect for people who’ve dedicated their lives to dealing with other people’s feet (and for this, I will eternally thank them), and also my trepidation going into a building that is dedicated to people taking off their shoes. Not only that; it’s a place where people take off their shoes so that they can have various foot ailments dealt with. Sometimes, those ailments include…ugh…fungus. I have to go and wash my hands after typing that.
Okay, I’m back. My hands smell like honey and jasmine, because I splash the cash for the really high-quality hand soap, but more importantly, I am cleansed. Maybe, when I book an appointment to get some kind of arch support insoles to fix what ails my ankle slaves, I’ll pay in both money and some really amazing hand soap recommendations.
I’m just assuming, like all trained professionals, podiatrists would like to wash their hands fairly often.