Toenail Day

One day I'm in a darkened New York theater watching the greatest play of our lifetime, and the next I'm getting my toenails trimmed. And I'm happy about both events.

I’m constantly preaching about finding joy. It’s how I survive in this crazy world and this crazy period in my life.

But in my dotage, I’m far less discriminating than I used to be. And damned lucky.

Six weeks ago, I went on a theater trip to New York. Sitting in a darkened theater watching a play or a musical is my happy place. I’ve been fortunate to see live theater for my entire life. This trip was especially special, and I went with four female family members I treasure. I will never forget about it.

But most days are ordinary and don’t involve orchestra seats to the hottest play on Broadway in the world’s greatest city.

So I’ve become less discriminating (though I do live off the memories of big, special events like that for some time, which is why I still look at my son and DIL’s wedding pictures almost a year out.)

Thursday was Toenail Day. Don’t you celebrate Toenail Day at your house? Oh, you will.

A decade ago, I had a most horrific and most First World event happen. I dropped a frozen New York strip on my left big toenail, which cracked it right down the middle. Tragically, this meant the end of wearing sandals for me, unless I could find a pair that covered the toes.

That toenail died, and something new grew in its place. I don’t have the words to describe the new toenail. Well, maybe hideous or grotesque. And then it started growing straight up, yes, vertically, like a hard little Venus de Milo right out of my toe.

I use the example of the famous Louvre-based statue because it is made of Greek marble, one of the hardest substances on earth much like my toenails, which I am now unable to trim.

After this event, I started going to a podiatrist because of the Vertical Toenail and the hardness of the other nails. I had long had pedicures by myself and with friends, but I no longer dared to show anyone without emergency training that obscene digit.

And I discovered something. Getting your toenails clipped by a professional is amazing. I go to a nurse who is especially trained in dealing with nails, and my husband has started accompanying me, as Medicare will pay for this every three months.

After using a tool resembling the Jaws of Life, which ably cuts through the rock-hard nails, the nurse uses a polishing machine to file the nails to perfection. (Of course, she has to shave down the Vertical Toenail, but the details are even too gross to reveal.)

The filing is wonderful, plus if you have a little callous on the side of your foot, she zaps that also. And then she rubs your feet.

Yes, it is joy on an ordinary summer day.

This time on Toenail Day, they called both my husband and me back at the same time. This was new, and it occurred to me we might have been nominated for the Gnarly Toenail Hall of Fame. His aren’t the greatest, but he can tell his own story, or you can wait for the feature film. We were not so honored, but got the royal treatment, and both felt very satisfied.

Like I say, you’ve got to find joy every. single. day. When we put our Sketchers shoes and Bombas socks back on, life was so good.

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What tiny pleasure gives you joy?