Pressurized Polish - The continuing saga of a mad woman’s (sort of brief) journal.

SUNDAY, MAY 25, 2008
It’s a nice day. A sun shining day. A caffeine-chugging day as I lift the cup of coffee to my lips. It tastes good. The day feels good. I feel good, which means something bad is going to happen. Something sneaky is going to come upon me. Something evil. It’s always like this. The same thing happened back in April. Maybe I’m being paranoid. All I have to do is go to my cousin’s birthday party. Then I will relax for Memorial Day tomorrow. Nothing out of the ordinary about that. I will enjoy the party, then relax. But I can’t help but remember my favorite saying. The one I repeat every hour to myself.

‘Nothing we ever want comes easy unto us.’
**********

I knew I should have skipped the party. Here I am, slaving away, decorating and serving food. Yes, I know I normally work in this job business. But this is a COUSIN’S PARTY, which means I DON’T GET PAID. I should be able to party-hearty. But no, the lazy slackers have me working for them. Curse my good-nature. Happy Birthday, ‘Cuz.

MONDAY, MAY 26, 2008
My body is aching. I will eat leftovers from the fridge today. No one is coming over for the holidays. Just me and my sore feet propped up on a pillow. The yesterday s will be pushed into distant memories. The tomorrows will still be distant destinies. The today is now, and it hurts. I haven’t checked any of my body parts to make sure they are okay. Big mistake.

WEDNESDAY, MAY 28, 2008
My arms stopped hurting. My legs stopped hurting. My feet are killing me. The problem is my toes. My eight little soldiers and their two fat generals must have overdone their twenty-mile hike on Sunday. But it has been four days, They should feel better by now. I stare down at toenails and notice there are pale spots underneath. The normal pink is gone.

Maybe I’m overreacting, playing out the pain for sympathy. Poor me. Too bad no one is around to hear my whine. I need a husband to rub my feet. Something else to put on the to-do list of life before I kick the big bucket in the sky. I think I’ll fit it in between bungee-jumping and riding a barrel over Niagra Falls. Find myself a husband to rub my sore feet. Until then, I will ignore the appendages. It’s not like they can run off somewhere. I’ll check them later.

SATURDAY, MAY 31, 2008
Okay, I am officially freaked out now. The eight soldiers have gone back to duty, but my two fat generals are AWOL. There is a tightness in both big toes, and it hurts to bend them. Oh, I can’t forget to mention the toenail polish. Red, purple, and white. Almost patriotic. The problem is that I don’t wear toenail polish. Never have. It’s not my cup of tea. Neither are the spotted colors under the nails. I could blame it on the toe elves, but this is a therapist’s road that I don’t want my checkbook to march down. Better head to the medical office instead.

TUESDAY, JUNE 3, 2008
"You’re back already? I thought I drained your bank account dry the last time you came in?" The doctor stares down at my abused toes.
I sigh deeply. "You tried to, but I got a senior citizen’s discount."

Doctor, frowning: "But, you’re 34?"

Me, shrugging shoulders: "Not in dog years."

Doctor, frowning even more: "You’re not a dog, and I’m not a veterinarian."

Me: "I am also not a bank teller, and you are not sitting in a jail cell serving time for fraudulent business practices on overcharging your patients. So, now that we got all this straightened out, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong with my feet."

Doctor, grimacing: "You bruised them. Quite badly. Probably from too tight shoes. The pain is from the pressure of fluid under nails. The red color is trapped blood. I’m actually going to have to do something about it to relieve the pressure."

Me, shocked to the core: "You mean, I’m going to get treatment at my doctor’s appointment? I’m going to pay you for a good reason? Gasp!"

Doctor, now in a sour mood: "You don’t have to rub the fact in my face."

Me, giddy: "Do it, Doc! Do it! Do me like you’ve never done a patient before!"

Doctor, removing two objects from his desk drawer. "Laugh it up while you can. You’re not going to like the procedure."

Me, feeling like a semi-truck had just slammed into my face: "Um . . . break it to me gently."

Doctor: "I have to take a metal rod and an incendiary device to burn a small hole through the nails. Then the fluid can escape. You should feel better almost immediately."

Me, gulping and turning eyes away so as not to watch: "Make it a quickie, Doc. I’m getting a headache thinking about it."

Doctor, grabbing my foot: "Here goes . . . "

Me, screaming: "OW-OW-OW-OW!"

Doctor, giving me a frustrated glare: "Why are you screaming? Toenails don’t have any nerves in them. You can’t feel the procedure."

Me, grinning: "I wanted you to know that you were doing a good job. Ew! What is that coming out?"

Doctor: "The fluid I told you about. Believe me, you don’t want to know exactly what it is."

Me, agreeing: "No, I don’t."

Doctor, lowering my foot and picking up the medical devices: "Well, I’m all done. That will be $160 for the treatment. Cash. In small unmarked bills, please."

Me, frowning. "Wait! All in-house treatment is billed as a regular doctor’s appointment. There is no extra charge. I read the fine print in the medical forms when I signed you up as my primary care provider. I have them photocopied and framed on my livingroom wall."

Doctor, acting strange as he tries to hide his equipment: "Oops! Forgot about that."

Me, catching sight of his tools: "Hey! That is a lighter, and a straightened paperclip! You used that on my feet, you fraud! This isn’t the Stone Age! There must be better equipment to use! Besides, if I had known it was as simple as that, I would have done it myself!"

Doctor, shrugging: "But you didn’t. So now you have to pay me $60 for the appointment."

Me, crossing arms angrily: "An appointment is only $24. What is the extra $36 for?"

Doctor, smiling: "You owe me a new paperclip."

Disclaimer: Since I’m not in any mood to pay lawsuits, I’m telling you right now that this story is fiction - sort of. Go to your doctor for treatment. Don’t rely on anything I wrote as medical advice.