Some time back, a man who was in my bedroom saw some blue foam things on my bedside table. They looked quite like the items pictured above, except that they were blue.
He picked one up and turned it around. “What are these?” he asked. “They’re like brass knuckles, except for when you want to be very, very gentle.” He put it on his hand, like one would brass knuckles, and did some shadow boxing.
I laughed. “Those are for painting your toenails. You stick the toothy bits between your toes, and then your toes don’t rub against each other and smear the nail polish.”
“Ack!” he said, throwing the thing down. “On your feet? Why didn’t you say something?”
I apologized profusely, but ever since — this happened years ago — I’ve never understood what was the big deal. I mean, my feet are at their very cleanest when I paint my toes; I soak them and scrub them first. They’re like a baby’s feet. Everybody loves baby feet.
And would he have reacted in disgust after picking up a pair of socks? Clean socks, I mean.
But maybe I had been unkind to expose the poor gentleman to these items. Maybe feet and toes are inherently icky.
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