I am an idiot.

Yesterday, I left the house with a single goal in mind: new Birkenstocks. My old ones, which have served me well for over 5 years, are all but dead and those who associate with me in real life know that I live in my Birkenstocks from April to November. There has to be snow on the ground before I will give them up. I had to drive half an hour to the nearest authorized dealer, but dammit, I had my sandals by 4pm and I was thrilled.

I had called my girlfriend earlier and mentioned getting pedicures, but being a Sunday, no place was open. We resolved to wait until later in the week, but my brand new Birkenstocks taunted me from the box...I busted out my foot bath and other necessary accessories and began a do-it-yourself pedicure. How hard can it be? It wouldn't be as nice as a professional job, but I wanted to wear my new sandals and I could not be deterred. The need for instant gratification certainly is a bitch.

I did my nails while I soaked my feet in warm water treated with a raspberry scented thingie that was shaped like a butterfly and fizzed when you dropped it in. Fabulous! My reptile-like feet were on their way to improvement already. I dried them and grabbed a callus-shaver, a deceptively simple-looking device that that is designed to de-scale ugly feet like mine.

There is a razor blade inside. Now, I knew this logically, but the dead skin was coming off so easily that I think I momentarily forgot. It was just like a cheese grater! Swish, swish, swish...it was so easy! All was going fine until I headed to the outer heel region, which is difficult to see unless you're a contortionist, but since it was going so well I decided to go in blind.

Big mistake.

I caught an edge and suddenly there was blood.

It didn't really hurt, but I could tell that something bad had happened even before I saw red, but when the blood came, it was practically shooting out. My oldest son walked in just as the blood pool on the towel was nearing the size of a donut...

OS: "MOMMY! YOU'RE BLEEDING!"
K: "Uh, yeah, just a little bit."
OS: "That's more than a little bit, Mommy."
K: "Can you just get me some toilet paper, honey?"
OS: [yelling from bathroom] "HOW MUCH?"
K: [trying hard to maintain composure] "Just a handful."

He came back with several handfuls. "You're gonna need more than that!" I forced the "everything's ok, sweetie" smile and assured him that it was merely a flesh wound. He reluctantly headed back to his room.

I hobbled to the bathroom trying not to leave a blood trail. I knew I had to take a shower, and that I shouldn't bandage it until I'd done so. I propped my foot up on the side and took my shower. By the time I was done, it looked like a small pig had been slaughtered in my tub. I hopped out and covered what I'd done with several bandaids. 20 minutes later, I had bled through and had to replace them. Not wanting my injuries to have been all for naught, I finished my pedicure, being careful not to bleed through onto the cushion of the chair upon which I propped my gimped-out foot.

When I was done, I hopped around with a bottle of 409 and a roll of paper towels, attempting to clean up what was looking more and more like a crime scene. I hopped into bed and admitted my folly to the husband. He looked at me like I was retarded.

This morning, I woke up to find that I'd not only bled through the bandaids but through the sock I'd worn to bed as well. Real cute. I changed the bandaids again and found that I was only oozing at that point, much to my relief, as I was starting to think I was going to need medical attention.

As I headed for the door to go to work, I took stock of my shoe choices: good supportive shoes that I could wear nice thick socks with, or my god-forsaken Birkenstocks. The Birks won, as I was still not willing to let the whole thing go. Perfect example of the genius that is woman.

I limped into work, explained to my coworkers ("Yeah, I got a little crazy with the callus shaver," which was inevitably met with the painful groans that could only come from women who have done it themselves at some point), and dragged myself into my cubicle. I even showed them when I had to change the dressings (twice)...Stephanie actually jumped back and started freaking out, which was highly entertaining. I hobbled around all day, my coworkers wincing every time I went by as though I was a reminder of the pain that we all put ourselves through to be "pretty."

But hey, my ugly toes look a tiny bit better, so the blood loss and days of hobbling around will almost be worth it.



And for those who want to see the gore, you can click below. For the sake of my squeamish readers, this is one image I am not embedding:

Hole in Foot


Yes. I am an idiot. So much for going to the gym this week.