13-053
My Toenails
I once had cute
toenails. Some would have called them
adorable. Starting at about age 30, however, my toenails began to
transform, gradually turning into the things of horror they are today.
My wife would demur; my toenails were
never all that cute, she’d say. Many a night I’d cuddle beside her, and
she’d say, "For God's sake, when are you going to trim those things?"
But even she admits, compared to the way they are now, my former toenails
were cuteness itself.
I don’t know why my toenails age
exponentially faster than other parts. My fingernails seem as spry and
vigorous as ever. Medically speaking, I have the fingernails of a
seventeen-year old, but like some freakish Dorian-Gray-type arrangement, my
toenails mutate with alarming speed, as if they bore the physical evidence of
my every sin and vice, along with all my wife's sins and vices, plus the dog's,
the cat's, and at least one of the neighbors’.
Ironically, even as my toenails become
ever more deformed and discolored, they grow stronger. The word
Frankensteinish comes to mind. Nothing so repulsive should be so durable.
They no longer seem made of ordinary toenail material, but from some
inhumanly tough animal hoof, an animal, by the way, with remarkably ugly hooves.
My toenails reduce ordinary clippers to bent and twisted metal, and I’d
consider resorting to hedge trimmers, did I not fear losing an entire toe.
I contemplated consulting a pedicurist,
but I was only fooling myself. Nothing could impel me to bare these
abominations to a stranger. The nice Korean lady’s face would blanch and
her jaw drop in mute revulsion. Customers would flee. I’d be
expelled from the shop, but too late to prevent nightmares from haunting
witnesses for years to come. Besides, nothing in her clipper and emery
board arsenal would prevail against these claws. You might as well try
moisturizing rhinoceros hide.
If even nail professionals fail, what can
I do? Never appear in public without shoes and socks, even at the
beach. Swim in shoes. Buy footwear over the internet to avoid
accidental exposure to unsuspecting shoe salesmen. When the toes of my socks shred as if the nails were angry rats
chewing their way to freedom, buy new socks immediately.
I only pray the time never comes when shoes
and socks no longer suffice because my nails have become too disproportionate
and misshapen. But my mortician! My poor mortician! He - or
she, God forgive me if it's a she - will have to behold my gruesome toenails unadorned. What unspeakable monstrosities
will they have transmogrified into by that point?
But it can't be helped. I will leave
instructions that my body be handled by a blind mortician if at all feasible.
If not, I will recommend tying a kerchief over the eyes or averting the
gaze from my feet at the very least. As
for the toenails, I recommend they be buried in a separate casket. A
stake through their heart.