FULL DISCLOSURE: This is a repeat of an earlier blog. No, it’s not a lame attempt to get extra mileage out of something I’d already written without taking the time to come up with something new. Well, okay, it is that. But, I also thought it would fit in dandy with the A-Z Challenge for ‘T.’ I had written a post on the demise of our pet turtle, Cecil (not the amphibian behemoth we caught while fishing), but decided to hold onto it until sometime next month. As I was changing socks this morning in honor of spring, I looked down at my feet and was inspired to dust off this little jewel instead. So, if you’ve read it, carry on, there’s nothing new to see. But, if you’re a recent follower and haven’t read it (because, really, how many of you actually dig into past posts of blogs you just started to follow?) feel free to have a look. You may like what you see. Unless it your toes..
Old Man Toe
I suffer from "onychomycosis."
Quick, what does that mean?
One of the marvels of the modern world is not indoor plumbing, as cool as that is. No, it’s the opportunity to visit with a physician on a regular basis. At least one who doesn’t use leeches.
It was during one of my visits to the doctor that I was informed I was a carrier of a disease whose name is as hard to spell as osteop....ossteyo...osteeo...uh, that bone disease thing. You know, that one that Sally Field always crabs about during commercials for Boniva (which I thought was a type of Viagra).
Does this disease spur telethons? Do smarmy celebrities wear ribbons at the Academy Awards in faux empathy with the afflicted? Does it inspire one of those snazzy car magnets? Do we need to notify medical authorities if it lasts longer than four hours?
Well...no, no, no, and-thank God-no.
Rather than some exotic malady which energizes world governments on the order of a “Save the Banana Slug” frenzy, onychomycosis is nothing more than an infection of the nail bed. Or, as I call it: “Old Man Toe."
Brought on by a fungus (EWW!!), Old Man Toe manifests itself primarily on-you guessed it-the big toes of middle-aged men. This results in discolored, brittle, and hardened nails.
Except for having to give up my dream of being a world-class grape stomper, though, OMT hasn't really bothered me. Luckily, I can live a happy, productive life, never worrying about being stigmatized-except at the beach.
However, since it IS yucky looking, my doctor deemed it prudent to cure my podiatric leprosy.
He told me there wouldn't be too many side effects, apart from possible liver damage. Whew, what a relief! I thought it was serious.
Ominously, he also brought up the traditional bugaboo of possible sexual drawbacks (isn’t that ALWAYS a potential side effect?). But, since I don’t use my toes for that sort of thing, anyway, I wasn’t terribly concerned.
Sadly, OMT is only the latest sign that I'm inching closer to senior citizen discounts at the movies. That, and being relieved each time I wake up.
I try hard not to drown in self-pity as my body lurches inexorably toward total breakdown. Still, it's hard to ignore indicators that I'm no longer a fresh-faced 18 year old. Indicators like...
When faced with two options, I choose the one which will get me in bed before “The 10 O’Clock News.”
I stubbornly hang onto my collection of LPs, never mind that a replacement stylus for my record player is as common as mood rings.
There was a time when the most uncomfortable part of a physical was having my blood drawn. Oh, in this age of the digital exam, would that were still so!
I remember when bell-bottoms went out of fashion. Before they came back INTO fashion. If leisure suits ever come back, I'm just gonna call in sick until I die.
There are people working for me who weren't even BORN when I graduated from high school.
To those people, I find myself saying, "Well, back in MY day, an internet was used for fishing and microwaves were how Munchkins said goodbye!"
There was a time when Mick Jagger didn’t remind me of my grandfather in spandex.
My hairline is receding to my collar, but I can braid what comes out of my nose (it’s a lot like Rapunzel that way. Only gross). I also have sock rings on my calves, dents in my head from bifocals, and a varicose veins road map on my shins. Yep, I’m a hottie.
Forget stereos at Christmas. Give me a warm pair of socks anytime.
I eat antacids like I ate Doritos. And Doritos like I ate broccoli.
I own a tee shirt which says ”Old Guys Rule.” Yeah, at the “Villages.”
I can never figure out whether I'm "jiggy" with it or "down" with that. I guess old guys should never speak "hip" language. Like earrings and ponytails, it makes them look silly.
At the amusement park, I more often than not say “No, that ride makes Dad a little queasy.” And that’s the merry-go-round.
Nine Inch Nails, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Marilyn Manson...what freaks! The Who, KISS, and Alice Cooper...now THERE'S music!
I know the difference between systolic and diastolic blood pressure. And what "good" cholesterol is.
Donald Duck and I have something in common. Neither one of us wears pants in the house nor can anybody understand us.
I know the words to the theme song from "H.R. Pufnstuf", prefer Curly over Shemp, and remember Neil Armstrong walking on the moon. Now, if I could only remember not to shove a VHS tape into the toaster, I’m having a good day.
Wilfred Brimley may be onto something with that whole oatmeal thing.
Hot dogs give me gas, beer makes me sleepy, and fiber is my friend.
I’m disappointed when the mail doesn’t come on time.
We had party lines, kids have cell phones. We had mailmen in pith helmets, kids have unlimited texting. We had Pong, kids have Call of Duty. We had mindless entertainment on network TV, kids have MTV. Oops, let’s just call that one a draw.
Of course, the moral of the story is be happy, for youth is fleeting. As inevitable as death, taxes, and Charlie Sheen in rehab, the youth of today will be in expand-o-slacks tomorrow.
And, wearing black socks with sandals to hide Old Man Toe.