by Solomon Tate
“I think my body’s starting to get old.”, my wife informed me.
“No way.”, I told her. “It looks fine to me.”
“I’m glad you think so.”, she said. “But stuff’s starting to drop and sag. At least my feet are still perfect.”, she added. “Look at how cute they are.”
“They’re adorable.”, I responded.
“No, really.”, she went on, sensing my sarcasm. ” Each toe is perfectly spaced from the one before.They’re absolutely perfect.”
“Well I know it thrills the shit out of me. Do you want some tea?”, I asked as I headed into the kitchen.
“No thanks.”, she replied. “I think I’m going to have to measure them to make sure they’re perfect.”
My wife has always had a thing about her feet. Me, well, not so much. I am not a foot person. But in the lifetime I have spent with this woman, I have feigned an appreciation for them, with particular emphasis on her toes. “It’s amazing.”, she said as I returned to the bedroom to see her holding a tape measure against her foot. “My toes are perfectly spaced.”
“I always thought so.”, I stated.
“You have to see this.”, she insisted as she measured the height of each toe. “See. They’re perfectly proportional.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”, I said. “I’m really not a foot person. If you want me to examine your thighs, I could be enticed to give it a whirl.”,
“I know you would.”, she acknowledged. “And I appreciate the gesture. But we’re talking about my feet.”
“Perhaps you should become a foot model.”, I advised her.
“Maybe I should.”, she said.
“You’d have to get them insured first.”, I suggested. “Like Jennifer Lopez’s ass, or Heidi Klum’s legs.”
“Really? I can do that?”, she asked.
“If they are cute and perfect enough to be modeled, they’re gonna be worth millions.”, I informed her. “What would happen if you developed Athlete’s Feet, or lost a few toes in a wood chipper? Ten toes should be worth about ten million dollars if they were no longer so cute and perfect.”
“I don’t think my feet are worth much.”, she informed me. “Not yet anyway. I’ll look into it if I start to get a lot of work.”
And then, without any notice, she decided to do it. I should have anticipated it, I mean, she gets like that. She immersed herself in learning everything she could about becoming a foot model. She contacted several agencies, and managed to secure an agent. A shoot was arranged to build a portfolio that could be submitted to potential advertising agencies that involved three and half hours of photographing her feet in various foot wear and nail polish. Comments were made about just how perfect her feet were. They were so perfect, that there were even some nudes taken of her feet, which I assumed were to be used in the adult foot industry. Not long after, she was offered a job to model a line of toe nail polish. She was excited as hell, and I suppose, I was proud of her.
A few days before the shoot there was a crisis. The unimaginable happened. It was catastrophic. “Look at this!”, she shouted.
“What?”, I asked.
“My big toe.”, she explained as she pointed. “What the hell is that on my toe?”
“Shit.”, I said. “I think its a callous.”
“How the hell did I get a callous?”, she asked. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“There’s not much you can do until you get it scrapped off.” I said. “I think its a pretty simple procedure.”
“I can’t have a scar.”, she advised. “No one wants a foot model with big scar on her foot.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.”, I said. “I don’t think there’s any scaring. The doctor just shaves it down. See what the doctor has to say.”
“The shoot is in two days.”, she reminded me.
“I know.”, I said with as much support as I could muster.
It turns out the callous was not a callous. It was a bunion. It could not be treated in the two days left before the shoot. My wife was forced to decline the job offer. The bunion was treated, but she received no further offers. It appears that she was blacklisted due to foot problems. It seems that having foot problems is not conducive to being a foot model no matter how perfect or cute your feet are. The dream was over. “I should have taken out the foot insurance.”, she told me.
She retired her feet, but still sits on our bed, in the wee hours of the night, and talks to me about her feet. She continues to measure them on a regular basis to ensure that they remain cute and perfect. I nod and grunt in agreement, patiently waiting for her to notice just how perfect her thighs are.