An odd thing happened during last weekend’s hiking trip. At the end of the first day, as I pulled off my mud-caked boots and peeled off my sweaty socks, the toenail on my right foot’s big toe kinda sorta fell off.
“Oh, CRAP,” I said, as the nail — painted a dark metallic blue — became partially dislodged from the nail bed. Not wanting to deal with a lost toenail in the midst of a hiking trip, I took a band-aid and essentially taped the errant nail to my toe. Strangely there was no pain, only the mental distress that any yoga-practicing woman who just bought two new pairs of sandals would feel.
Winter’s transgressions are finally catching up with me. My toenail troubles began during last December’s skiing trip to the Alps, when Mr. P’s family was trying to locate a pair of skis and boots for me within the clan’s vast collection of winter sporting gear. The problem is, of course, that I’m a robust American, and they’re all petite French. After conferring among themselves in French, my father-in-law presented me with a white pair of women’s ski boots. They belonged to Aunt Francoise, who is evidently known in the family as having gargantuan feet.
I tried on Francoise’s boots as the Ps watched. “They’re pretty snug,” I told Mr. P.
“You want them to be snug,” he told me. “You don’t want your feet to move around.”
I could wiggle my toes, but nothing else was moving, that was for damn sure. What a relief, that I wouldn’t have to rent boots! The next day, as we were skiing, Mr. P asked me, “How are your feet?”
“Honestly, they are completely frozen,” I admitted. “I can’t feel a thing.” This worried Mr. P, because if my feet had numbed, this may mean that the boots were too small to allow heat to build up around the foot. But because I couldn’t feel anything, I didn’t care… until that evening, when I took off the boot and found my toenail had turned completely black.
Delightfully, my black toenail became the topic of that night’s aperitif. It was then that my mother-in-law actually converted shoe sizes and figured out that “Big Foot” Francoise actually wears a size 7 1/2 shoe. I wear a size 9.
So my toenail turned black and everyone told me that it would eventually fall off. I didn’t believe it, though. I got a pedicure and life continued just fine. No one knew that underneath this coat of dark blue metallic paint was a black toenail. I even forgot.
But now… Just in time for sandal season! After taping the toenail back into place, I could continue to deny that I would lose my toenail until the next day, when the rigors of mountain hiking loosened the band-aid and the toenail ended up under my foot. “Let’s take a break,” I told Mr. P, “because I’m repeatedly stepping on my toenail.”
I could no longer deny it: my toenail was gone. All that remained was a spot of black bruise and the rough beginnings of a new nail protruding from the matrix. I am not vain about my nails, so it was surprising devastating. Everytime I look at it, I become fascinated by how grotesque it is, this little stub of a nail covering one-fourth of the nail bed.
“Toenails are useless, anyway,” Mr. P — who is no stranger to missing toenails — consoled me. He’s obviously not a foot man, but he’s right. Toenails are simply a remnant of our evolutionary past.
“Functionally useless, perhaps, but I want it back!” I wailed. “I can’t paint a nail bed.” Or…can I?
(BTW, after Francoise’s ski boot turned my toenail black, I wound up borrowing an old pair of ski boots from my father-in-law, which fit perfectly. Cringe.)
