This time I’m not sticking my foot in my mouth
I’ve had trouble with my feet all my life. In fact, I got off on the wrong foot at an early age when I started playing sports — I seemed to favor my left foot, instead of my right. So in kickball, football, soccer and even golf — I always advanced the ball with my left foot.
As a teenager I was really good at putting my foot in my mouth. Actually, it was my mouth that did most of the damage, but I somehow always recovered.
When I was of courting age (around 12) I started sweeping girls off their feet, mostly because I always put my best foot forward.
Somehow I survived the adolescent years and went off to college, where (You can see this coming.) I had professors that really put their foot down hard on me. But that only made me stronger. When I embarked on my career as a writer, I got off on the right foot (still my left) from the start. And I had a good run in advertising, because I would always take an unusual look at things.
These days, I’m ready to put my feet up and relax a little, but there is one thing getting in my way — my stinking left foot.
After all those years of abuse, it’s painfully starting to reject the rest of my body. So I’m about to undergo foot surgery.
Those are two words I never wanted to use together — foot and surgery, but I really don’t have a choice.
Those of you who have read my columns over the past few years might have noticed that more times than not, the ad magically appearing on the same page as my ugly mug is for Smoky Mountain Foot and Ankle Clinic. It’s been a bit of a nuisance having an ingrown toenail or a throbbing bunion rudely interrupting my space, but when I started having foot pain, I knew exactly where to go.
It also helped that two years ago my wife had her own foot problem, which Dr. DelBene neatly solved with a hemi toe joint replacement. I’m a Ford man, now, so a Hemi isn’t an option for me. Instead, I’m going to have my big toe fused, a ligament repaired, and a couple (woodmaker’s term) biscuits neatly wedged in two parts of my foot, so it is shaped like a foot again.
You might say, I’m about to have "a wedgie" — and it this point a real, old-fashioned wedgie would probably feel better.
By the time you read this, I’ll be off my feet and poor Carol will be nursing me back to health. It’s great to have such a good woman at my feet, as it were, but pray for her. I’m going to do my best to be a good patient, but I’m sure I am going to really try her patience in the weeks to come.
If I feel up to it, I’m going to blog about this whole ordeal on The Mountaineer’s Web site, so if you are masochistic, it should be some humorous reading.
I’ll end this column with a shout out for Dr. Przynosch, who will be "cutting me."
My foot is in your hands.