I don’t like going to the doctor’s office, basically for the same reasons that no one much cares for going to the doctor’s. The reasons that bring one there are never particularly happy.
I also don’t like other people’s feet. They’re potentially smelly, diseased, dirty, and I really don’t know where they’ve been. I especially don’t like other people’s feet touching me in any way. I don’t mind if people touch my feet, as my feet are rather cute.
It doesn’t seem like there’s much occasion for other people’s feet to touch me, but when you’re as aware of the danger as I am, you notice that it does happen. Sometimes it’s an accidental brush, and what does one do in these cases? People would think I was weird if I jumped up and screamed in disgust or to ran to the bathroom to cleanse the contaminated spot. It doesn’t really matter if the offensive foot is covered in sock; diseases and general grossness permeate cotton. I remember once when my boyfriend rubbed his bare foot affectionately against mine; he’s an ex-boyfriend now, of course. Direct foot to foot contact is obviously the most offensive. I felt paralyzed, since he didn’t know my feelings on feet. I thought he might be offended if I ran shrieking from the room, so I became very stiff and endured. It was a very Gandhi-like scene of patience and acceptance.
Last week, when I visited the podiatrist, my antipathies merged. Immediately, the nurse asked me to remove my shoes and socks. I did and, not wanting to seem weird, I did not extend my legs into the air to avoid touching anything. Instead I courageously allowed my bare feet to touch the bottom of the hospital chair, the same hospital chair, mind you, that countless other people’s bare feet have touched. Gag me. It was a full fifteen seconds before the nurse produced a sanitary cover to protect my feet from the dirty chair, but by that point the nasty foot germs were already having a field day on my clean and cute feet.
After she left, the jacket that I had draped delicately over a nearby chair fell onto the floor. I wanted to retrieve it while balancing my feet on the sanitary napkin to avoid further contamination, but I couldn’t quite reach the jacket. In my efforts, I twisted by body into a strange contortionist posture in which my rear end was sticking straight up while my right arm grasped desperately but unsuccessfully for the jacket. It was at this moment that my doctor entered the room. I turned slightly, rear end still protruding, to see him greet me with a weird, impish little grin. It wasn’t exactly a dirty old man grin, more of a teenage boy I-just-got-a-look-at-your-bum grin. It was all slightly awkward and not made better by the realization that he was, as per the cliché, an attractive, young doctor. (What would have made it better is if he had scurried solicitously to help me retrieve my jacket!) Worse, in my confusion and embarrassment, I let my foot touch the floor so that I could grab my jacket, so all previous efforts were in vain.
As both I and the bacteria now present on my feet settled ourselves in, I explained to the doctor that I had come to have my orthotics replaced. I quite love my orthotics—pieces of plastic molded to fit the shape of my foot to prevent running injuries—but they’re ten years old now, and it shows. The doctor spent the next ten minutes making fun of my beloved orthotics, laughing at how old they looked, and repeating this joke throughout the visit. I was offended on their behalf.
Ignoring these jokes and the aforementioned teenage grin, I told him of Dr. X, who had created this aging pair, and my doctor helpfully looked online to find a number for Dr. X. Several search results noted Dr. X had passed away, which saddened me. My doctor then called my former doctor’s practice and asked to speak with Dr. X. Um, we just read he had died. The receptionist responded, “Um, he died,” and my doctor replied quickly, “Oh, can you tell me where he got his orthotics made?” It was the height of sympathy.
Needless to say, I left orthotic-less. Instead, my feet were subjected to second hand foot germs, my rear end scrutinized, and both a receptionist and my orthotics needlessly offended. I still hate feet and visits to the doctor’s office. Only now I have something new to add to the list. I hate visits to the doctor’s office that involve my feet.
I also don’t like other people’s feet. They’re potentially smelly, diseased, dirty, and I really don’t know where they’ve been. I especially don’t like other people’s feet touching me in any way. I don’t mind if people touch my feet, as my feet are rather cute.
It doesn’t seem like there’s much occasion for other people’s feet to touch me, but when you’re as aware of the danger as I am, you notice that it does happen. Sometimes it’s an accidental brush, and what does one do in these cases? People would think I was weird if I jumped up and screamed in disgust or to ran to the bathroom to cleanse the contaminated spot. It doesn’t really matter if the offensive foot is covered in sock; diseases and general grossness permeate cotton. I remember once when my boyfriend rubbed his bare foot affectionately against mine; he’s an ex-boyfriend now, of course. Direct foot to foot contact is obviously the most offensive. I felt paralyzed, since he didn’t know my feelings on feet. I thought he might be offended if I ran shrieking from the room, so I became very stiff and endured. It was a very Gandhi-like scene of patience and acceptance.
Last week, when I visited the podiatrist, my antipathies merged. Immediately, the nurse asked me to remove my shoes and socks. I did and, not wanting to seem weird, I did not extend my legs into the air to avoid touching anything. Instead I courageously allowed my bare feet to touch the bottom of the hospital chair, the same hospital chair, mind you, that countless other people’s bare feet have touched. Gag me. It was a full fifteen seconds before the nurse produced a sanitary cover to protect my feet from the dirty chair, but by that point the nasty foot germs were already having a field day on my clean and cute feet.
After she left, the jacket that I had draped delicately over a nearby chair fell onto the floor. I wanted to retrieve it while balancing my feet on the sanitary napkin to avoid further contamination, but I couldn’t quite reach the jacket. In my efforts, I twisted by body into a strange contortionist posture in which my rear end was sticking straight up while my right arm grasped desperately but unsuccessfully for the jacket. It was at this moment that my doctor entered the room. I turned slightly, rear end still protruding, to see him greet me with a weird, impish little grin. It wasn’t exactly a dirty old man grin, more of a teenage boy I-just-got-a-look-at-your-bum grin. It was all slightly awkward and not made better by the realization that he was, as per the cliché, an attractive, young doctor. (What would have made it better is if he had scurried solicitously to help me retrieve my jacket!) Worse, in my confusion and embarrassment, I let my foot touch the floor so that I could grab my jacket, so all previous efforts were in vain.
As both I and the bacteria now present on my feet settled ourselves in, I explained to the doctor that I had come to have my orthotics replaced. I quite love my orthotics—pieces of plastic molded to fit the shape of my foot to prevent running injuries—but they’re ten years old now, and it shows. The doctor spent the next ten minutes making fun of my beloved orthotics, laughing at how old they looked, and repeating this joke throughout the visit. I was offended on their behalf.
Ignoring these jokes and the aforementioned teenage grin, I told him of Dr. X, who had created this aging pair, and my doctor helpfully looked online to find a number for Dr. X. Several search results noted Dr. X had passed away, which saddened me. My doctor then called my former doctor’s practice and asked to speak with Dr. X. Um, we just read he had died. The receptionist responded, “Um, he died,” and my doctor replied quickly, “Oh, can you tell me where he got his orthotics made?” It was the height of sympathy.
Needless to say, I left orthotic-less. Instead, my feet were subjected to second hand foot germs, my rear end scrutinized, and both a receptionist and my orthotics needlessly offended. I still hate feet and visits to the doctor’s office. Only now I have something new to add to the list. I hate visits to the doctor’s office that involve my feet.
