Time for embarrassing confession. I sometimes pick at my toenails.
Friday night I had a disturbing dream.
I was pulling at an annoying hangnail when I noticed that there was a gaping hole between the edge of my big toenail and the skin. I was able to pry the entire toenail back from my toe, resulting in an enormous hole. Because I am a rubber monkey in my dream life, I was able to peer into the end of my toe and gaze into my foot. It was full of bones (of course), and the walls were lined with kosher salt. I reached my finger inside to try to remove some of the salt, afraid that touching the inside of my hollow cavernous foot would be painful. It wasn’t.
I thought I noticed some debris near my heel, so I grabbed a flashlight to get a better look. Wedged in the back of my heel was a small, pink plastic pig. This baffled me, as one would be by the sight of a plastic pig in their foot. I carefully reached inside and removed it. I checked one more time to see if anything else was living in my heel and saw only bones. I shut my big toe.
I knew I had to test out my foot, to see if I had indeed found the cause of my heel trouble. I stood up and gingerly put some weight on my right foot. My heel felt surprisingly squishy and pain-free. The end.
Saturday night we went to a graduation party for one of Scott’s co-workers. She had been going to school for some time, so the theme was most fittingly, when pigs fly. These little plastic pigs with wings adorned all of the tables.
I flashed back to my dream and told it to Scott. The pig pictured was not the kind I pulled out of my foot, but the little plastic pink pigs that were on the cake were exactly like the one from my dream. I desperately wanted to take one home, but it would have involved getting into it with a six-year-old who was playing with the pigs in the corner of the room. I’m sure she would have kicked my ass.
Weird coincidence? Perhaps, Then again, maybe it’s a diagnosis of what’s wrong with my foot, and it’s time to see an orthopedic surgeon. Or a psychiatrist.
