Ode to My Big Toe

There was a time in my life when my big toes had one job: look cute in sandals. They both performed admirably.

Now, at 74, my big toe requires medical supervision, genetic analysis, careful trimming protocols, and a nightly petroleum jelly routine. I did not see this coming.

Apparently, I inherited my mother’s inward curving big toenails.  She passed along many wonderful things: resilience, practicality, a sturdy constitution, a love of cooking. And also, it seems, ambitious nail curvature.

Some kids inherit fine china. I inherited a C-shaped toe strategy.  This week, my podiatrist trimmed just a bit too enthusiastically and nicked the side. One tiny spot of blood. Nothing dramatic. But when you are a Type 2 gal, even a tiny toe injury becomes a committee meeting.

I tried not panic.
I tried to just assess.

An acquaintance with Type 2 got a cut on his foot that refused to heel.  So I am a very Nervous Nelly.  (After six months of doctor appointments and various antibiotics, he had to have his foot amputated).

Max suggested I clean and pat dry and apply petroleum jelly.  Twice a day.  Let nature do its thing first.  If anything changes, I'll be contacting the podiatrist.

You know ~ there is a humility that comes with aging body maintenance. Reading glasses on every surface. Hearing aids I adore. Slip-on shoes that prioritize stability over seduction. A podiatrist on speed dial. These are not signs of decline; they are evidence of attention.

At 30, I bought heels.
At 74, I buy sturdy slip on shoes.

So here I am, petroleum jelly at the ready, grateful for modern podiatry (most of the time), wide-toed shoes, and a body that, with a little supervision, still carries me exactly where I want to go.  Youth is about enhancement. Aging is about maintenance.

I need to remind him that I prefer nails trimmed straight across.