There was this one time when my big toe got stuck in the handle of a coffee cup.
It was a brown ceramic cup, with, if I remember correctly and I’m not sure that I do, a blue cornflower glazed on each side. It was, you can see, the kind of cup that found its currency in the seventies but kind of bled into the eighties. Unlike macrame which simply bled.
I have never been able to shake the feeling that if I ringed my index finger and thumb around my big toe, I would be able to dislocate it. My toe, I mean. I fear that one day, it – again, I mean my toe – will get stuck in the drain of the bath. I certainly do not find the thought of a foot massage sensual. No. Not in any way.
I guess it’s not worth asking “how?” is it? Kind of like the sock in the toilet incident.
See, this is why I lurk here, Thirdcat.
This post.
Such musings are commonplace for me.
Not to mention I have toes that are almost as dextrous as my fingers, a trivial fact that has been known to inexplicably trouble me. As a child I used to fret that God had given me toes like this weird because something terrible was going to happen to my hands and I would need my toes to craft.
So. Yeah.
I used to obsessively worry that I would lose the use of my hands and be driven to do everything with my feet. I would practice drawing with textas using my toes.
Once I tried to drink from a mug using only my feet. It was impossible, but this act gives me the insight to understand just how one might wedge the toe in the handle irretrievably.
It was one of those lovely opalescent orange mugs still found in the camping box or school staff rooms.
Feet . . . toes . . . hmm . . . an opening topic, it seems.
the worst thing i ever did to my big toe was drop a jam jar on it. i wasn’t wearing shoes. the jar bounced. and then it smashed on the tiled floor anyway. THE PAIN! i hobbled for a week. the nail went black for six months and then fell off.