Sunday, March 06, 2005

An exciting story for old people or people with a foot fetish

Friday evening

The phone rang at exactly 6 p.m. I was in the kitchen, trying to decide what to make for dinner. Pasta or chicken? Pasta and chicken? I don’t normally answer the phone, but something compelled me to pick it up.

"Do you still need my help?" he asked. "I have an opening at 11:30 tomorrow morning."

Finally a real conversation with the man I’d been playing phone tag with for two weeks! I did a little victory dance.

"Yup. That works for me. See you then."

I hung up the phone feeling as giddy as if George Stroumboulopoulos had called to ask me out. No, this was way more exciting. I had a date with a podiatrist!

Not to get into too much detail, but I have a painful condition called Morton’s neuroma, which is an inflamed nerve between the third and fourth toe. I got it after months of cycling in too small shoes. The nerve was repeatedly being pinched until it swelled up and stayed that way. Sometimes it doesn’t bother me; other times it feels like a hot knife is being jabbed into the ball of my foot.

I diagnosed myself last summer after consulting my collection of medical reference books (a staple on every good hypochondriac’s bookshelf). None of the suggested treatments -- bigger shoes, ice, an addiction to painkillers -- worked.

Admitting that it just wasn’t going to go away on its own, I called a podiatrist. My friend Leandro, a nurse, offered his support, "Why are you going to a podiatrist? I’ve never heard of anyone under the age of 70 going to a podiatrist."

Old or not, I realized my feet were in no condition to be fondled by a strange man. I clipped my nails, painted my toes hot pink, and slathered my feet in moisturizer. I mean, you brush your teeth before going to the dentist, right? And what if the podiatrist turned out to be hot?

The next day

After scrubbing my feet raw, I pulled on a pair of clean socks and laced up my old-school adidas sneakers. I figured showing up in sensible shoes would earn me some bonus points.

I shouldn’t have bothered. After asking a few questions and digging his fingers into the ball of my foot, the podiatrist told me he couldn’t help me.

"You have a neuroma," he said. "That’s not my specialty."

Excuse me? What exactly was his specialty then? Clipping toenails and sanding calluses? I wore clean socks for this?

He gave me the phone number of another doctor, a sports podiatrist.

"He’s young and specializes in sports injuries. I think you’ll really like him."

I swear, the way he said it made it sound like the other doctor was cute and available. I’m going to set up an appointment first thing Monday morning.

Wait a minute! It’s Sunday evening already? Going to the podiatrist was the highlight of my weekend? And I wrote about it? I am officially old.


Anonymous said...


I thought nice girls *always* wore clean socks.


Sarah said...

Funny! Nice girls wear whatever we want. The socks were fresh out of the dryer clean. I save those for special occasions.


Callie said...

Too bad. Maybe your pedi will last until the appt with Dr. Hottie?


Sarah said...

Let's hope. Otherwise, I'll have to do my toes again this weekend. I have an appointment with the hot young doctor next Tuesday (well, he's hot and young in my mind anyway).


Anonymous said...

i'll try to brief here because the lights keep flickering and i think the power's about to go out - it's already off in the parking lot! but i love the new vancouver skyline picture for the hollywood north report! it looks awesome!

Sarah said...

Thanks. I put it up there using Sarah Marchildon's HTML 101. Which basically means tinkering around until it works. I think it looks good too.