I stepped out of the shower onto the soft, luxurious mat and immediately felt the pain of something sharp pierce the ball of my foot. Ouch.
I hobbled upstairs to get my eyebrow tweezers, (something I own but have no idea how to use for their intended purpose – sort of like the glue gun incident we don’t talk about anymore).
I settled on the bed, pulled my left foot up on to my right knee, and with sound effects that were not sexy, attempted to excavate the black sliver. Gross.
You should know two things about me: I don’t like feet, mine or anyone else’s. Period. Also, I do not handle wounds with grace. I’m queasy. A boo-boo that opens the skin, draws blood, needs to be picked or cleaned makes me want to pass out. Typing that sentence made me woozy.
I did my best to negotiate the black barb of cruelty from my freshly washed feet. I picked, scraped and pinched at the sliver with the tweezers. It was awful. Little by little, I pulled the sliver of agony out of my foot, but I could see I didn’t get it all. It had to be at least an inch long (it was barely a millimeter, but this is my story, so I’m going for dramatic effect. Play along). My foot was inflamed from my botched attempt to remove this ginormous sliver.
I’m no delicate flower (despite all obvious statements above to the contrary), so I focused on the tasks of the day. Then late afternoon, my foot started to hurt again.
I didn’t want to ask the Carpenter for help. He enjoys picking out slivers the way some freaks like to pop pimples (I just threw up a bit in my mouth there) because it gives them some sick sensory pleasure. Slivers are an occupational hazard for the Carpenter, so he has perfected the art of removing them; but worth noting, he has tough skin so things that hurt my delicate nature don’t hurt his thick, coarse hands.
When the Carpenter knows I have a sliver, he gets this medieval, maniacal medical practitioner look in his eyes.
“Get me the tweezers,” he bellows.
He patted his knee, motioning for me to trust him with my foot, while snapping the tweezers like tiny crab claws the whole time, and flashing a wicked smile. He was enjoying my anxiety far too much.
I don’t like anyone, including the Carpenter, to touch my feet. Hands off my feet. I should mention here that I am very ticklish. Jumpy ticklish, as in likely to involuntarily kick the Carpenter in his most delicate of places, simply out of reflex (cough) if he strikes a nerve.
He scraped and scraped and scraped the sharp edge of the tweezers on the ball of my foot, squeezing my foot tightly to secure that whole reflex option, and then pulled at the skin, gently but with enough pressure to make me curtly suggest he be done. He ignored me.
And then, just when I was thinking of kicking him with my right foot, he dropped the tweezers and put his hands in the air as if to signify success.
Well, I’ll be darned.
“You big baby,” he said.
I’ll accept that, but only from a guy with coarse hands and a soft touch. Giggle.
