I took off my shoes before entering the house. Homeowner foot fetish I suspect. I’ve been down this path before, literally, and should have been more foot smart this time. But I forgot about the “no shoe” rule and the corn wrap air bag on my pinkie toe.
Because I got lost, I was the last one to arrive, having left my house without direction or directions. I asked three people on the way to guide me to house #35; luckily two of the three Wiseman that stopped had GPS.
“It’s this way,” Wiseman #2 yelled from an open car window. “Follow me!”
I nodded and tailed him down a street with no name. Then with a wave of a hand he was gone, leaving me stranded in uncharted burb territory. Since I was hesitant to take a chance in a “no sign” zone, I continued on my quest to find another Wiseman with GPS.
This time, a truck, not a car came to my rescue, a Peapod Truck in fact, with the food already delivered. I knew this since I had stalked the driver earlier when I spotted the truck on the side of the road (I have a nose for that). With patient exuberance, I waited for Peapod Guy to finish unloading the goods.
“I’m lost,” I said.
After inputting #35 into the GPS, Peapod guy pointed down the block.
“That’s it. Over there!”
He directed me toward a familiar place. The road with no name I had hesitated to take before was in fact a portal to the shoeless universe, a suburban time continuum of sorts.
As I beamed into the foyer with all my molecules in order, I waited for the other shoe to drop, while gauging the pinkie toe situation down below.
Extricating the corn wrap by hand seemed like a viable plan, and so I gave the go ahead to special ops. But then the notion of foot-odor fingers forced me to stop. I decided to remove the wrap with my foot instead, struggling a bit until the wrap sprang from my toe, landing somewhere in the foyer.
After pinpointing the location of the wrap, I conducted living room reconnaissance on the level above. Did anyone hear the corn wrap drop? No horrified looks on the faces in the crowd. It was safe to proceed.
I snatched the wrap, clenching it in a toe death grip, and dropped it back into the shoe.
Bare feet first, I started up the stairs and approached the group with my talons in full view. Everyone sat locked in a circle of chairs, all barefooted with perfectly groomed toes. I was self conscious of mine. When was the last time I filed? I didn’t know. Likely, I needed to lop off excess nail with a hedge clipper or an electric saw.
I plopped onto the couch in between a pregnant lady and a white haired chap. I avoided temptation to assess the state of their feet then dropped my purse onto my toes to hide my unsightly claws. Good call I thought.
Across from me, a woman in shorts crossed her legs with pristine painted toes exposed. How audacious. She sat with feet pointed out toward the circle, proud of her painted toes, while I hid mine, ashamed of my deformity.
I sat with fingers clasped on my lap, afraid to move, hoping I wouldn’t get nailed. I flexed my toes beneath my purse allowing them some wiggle room, as Miss Painted Toenails dazzled the group in red acrylic splendor, her freedom feet mingling with the other toes.
Oh, how I wanted to wiggle my digits with the other happy toes but kept them sequestered until the end of the meeting.
When the other feet landed and began their exodus across the room, my toes and I ran for the entry and the safety of our shoes. Once I slipped my Quasimodo foot inside, I fled the scene of my toenail felony.
Never again, I cried on the drive back home. Before attending another meet up of naked feet, I would tow my nails to the body shop for an overhaul and paint job.