The World is a Trash Heap So It Might Be Time to Break My Most Sacrosanct Internet Rule

I’ve been existing online for almost two decades now and during that time I’ve had one hard and fast rule. One binding commandment I swore I’d never break. That guiding principle: Under no circumstances will I ever post feet pics on the internet.

Ah, man, this is tough… am I about to break my most sacred rule?

I’m still on the fence, but it’s very possible I will be hard launching my feet online at the bottom of this story. Let’s talk it through.

If you haven’t clicked away to some other seedy corner of the web yet (I don’t blame you if you have… but then again you wouldn’t be reading this parenthetical if you’ve bounced, so we’ve stumbled into quite the paradox, haven’t we?), you’re probably wondering what in the world I’m talking about.

Excellent question.

The short answer: my 7-year-old daughter painted my toenails a few days ago. They’re bright cherry red. Or blood red, if you’re morbid like me and prefer macabre metaphors.

Now for the longer answer.

On weekends when we have nothing to do and the neighborhood children are occupied with sports, family time, or other unacceptable excuses for why they aren’t playing with us, my daughter sometimes gets desperate and sets up a salon in our living room. She slides the tall black chairs, which reside next to the kitchen counter, out into the middle of the room, finds a box or stool to use as a footrest, and collects an assortment of make-up products, towels, brushes, and random liquids.

Her management style as a salon owner is dictatorial. She does not abide by the adage that the customer is always right. In fact, in her opinion, the customer is almost always wrong. Particularly if the customer happens to be me (spoiler alert: the customer is usually me).

So it came to pass on a sleepy weekend afternoon that I got my nails painted fire engine red and my hair brushed into a blocky fauxhawk. The hair part was fine because I butcher my hair into roughly that cut every few weeks anyway. Getting my hair brushed was soothing and I urged the stylist to brush harder to give my scalp a nice scratching. I even commandeered the brush briefly and really went to town to demonstrate the type of service I was hoping for. My daughter giggled and I thought this might win me some brownie points for later.

It did not.

When it came time to select a nail polish color, I asked for something darker, maybe in the purple family to better suit my skin tone. I was denied. Only the type of red you might find dripping from the fangs of a vampire was acceptable according to the salon proprietress.

I sat back in my chair and accepted my fate with dignity. Or rather, with as much dignity as a person can muster while seated on a bar stool in the middle of one’s living room, naked feet propped up on a cardboard box, hair styled like Vanilla Ice or Kid from Kid n’ Play.

My daughter knelt and methodically went to work on my toes. She did an outstanding job, even pausing to wipe away the bits of stray polish that leaked onto my skin. Her technique was flawless. You’ll see how great a job she did in a moment (maybe… I’m still weighing this carefully but there doesn’t seem to be any other way). Her slow and steady approach also gave me some time to relax, reflect, and ponder the absolute futility of existence.

I mean, think about it. Here we are, constantly bombarded by terrible news on all fronts: an expanding war, human atrocities in plain sight, climate change, homelessness, abject stupidity (or brain worms as I like to call it), you name it. On and on and on. Horror is everywhere all at once. But then again, it isn’t. Oftentimes, all that heaviness is nowhere.

It disappears.

Or at least it seems like it does. Particularly when I’m drinking iced coffee in my air-conditioned home or sitting in a makeshift salon chair watching my youngest child paint my toenails. Despite being poisoned by a toxic and unaccepting culture in my youth like all of us were, I’ve grown and matured enough to know that when your daughter asks/demands to paint your toenails midlife-crisis-convertible red, you don’t ask questions. And not just because you fear for your life if you get on her bad side.

You do it because it makes her happy. You do it because she’s seven years old, which seems young, but the years slip away so fast. You do it because, let’s be honest, wearing nail polish is fun!

It often seems like the world is ending. Particularly when you’re perpetually online. Even for those of us who are relatively safe, comfortable, and insulated (for now).

So, if it all could fall apart tomorrow, why wouldn’t I paint my toenails? Why wouldn’t any of us? The world is crazy; try to hold onto any tiny pieces of joy you can, friends. Do what makes you happy and try to make the people you love happy, too. That’s my little piece of wisdom for the week.

Anyway, I’m going to do it. There’s no turning back now. Here are my feet… (heavy sigh). Feel free to sell this picture if you can find a buyer (unlikely, but if you do, let me know what the going rate is). I don’t mind one bit. Go for it. Nothing really matters anyway.

I’m sorry and you’re welcome. After all that, I couldn’t go through with it. Please enjoy my new boygenius shirt instead. Look at those cute little guys!

Fine. Here’s one toe just to prove that I’m not lying…