The Luv Doc: Unkempt Feet

Dear Luv Doc,

Met a great guy about two months ago. We hit it off on all levels: Similar ages, temperaments, political sensibilities, sense of humor. There is just one catch, and it’s a big one for me: hygiene. Specifically foot hygiene. A few weeks ago I learned that he had never been to Barton Springs – unimaginable, I know – so I insisted we set a date. We both took off a Monday so we could enjoy a relatively peaceful afternoon. He showed up at my apartment in the standard baggy swim trunks and hiking sandals. Although I found the hiking sandals somewhat unsettling – they looked like they had seen some tough times – I didn’t notice his toenails at first. My mother always used to say “chin up,” but sometimes it pays to look down. When we laid out our towels and sat down, I noticed his toenails were an absolute disaster: long, craggy, discolored. They were so bad I decided that he must be self-conscious about them, but no, as the day went on it almost seemed like he was flaunting them. It’s a good thing we didn’t go to Sandy’s first or I might not have been able to hold down my lunch. So I have two questions: 1) In what remote corner of the world is this acceptable? 2) How do I tell this otherwise lovely gentleman he needs an emergency pedicure without hurting his feelings and ruining an otherwise nice relationship?

– Still Shuddering at the Thought

Normally I would issue a demerit for trying to sneak in an additional question, but you seem genuinely distraught – and for good reason. I don’t think most sandal-wearers fully understand the level of trauma certain people experience due to unkempt feet in a pair of unkempt sandals. Seriously y’all. Some of us have been to Kerrville. We’ve got that thousand-yard stare. There are certain things you never recover from: Trump voter Seventies-style pornstaches … low-rise skinny jeans … your dad in padded biking shorts … and yes, a hot afternoon in a dusty mosh pit at a Phish concert. If there is a more potent method of birth control, I would like to hear about it. And, lest anyone get surly about me picking on Phish, I did so in the interest of brevity. There are plenty of other concerts with a similar laissez-faire attitude toward foot hygiene: Leftover Salmon, Widespread Panic, Goose, Billy Strings, and the OG dirty foot crowd: the Grateful Dead. I mean, the term “Deadhead” is cute and all, and it’s at least close to the mark, but if you really want to be descriptive, you gotta say something about them dirty-ass feet.

OK, well, I guess that takes care of question No. 1. I’m sure there are some other people I could throw under that bus, but that would be cruel. For instance: There were certain kids in elementary school who always seemed to have sticky skin – I mean like a tree frog. You would randomly touch their arm and have to peel it off like a piece of duct tape. With them, however, there were socioeconomic factors at play. Not so with the dirtyfoot outdoor concertgoing gang. That’s a lifestyle choice. Like Harley riders, a lot of those people hold down jobs … or at least occasionally check in on their trust fund portfolios. I’ve never really been able to pin down why a penchant for 15-minute improvisational guitar solos makes people allergic to bathing and toenail clippers. I’m an English major, not a social scientist, but isn’t this what social scientists are for? Where is the mountain of dissertations that surely must exist? Are they in Area 51?

Ok, on to question No. 2. Let me start by saying if feelings aren’t meant to be hurt, why do they even exist in the first place? I don’t think that’s how feelings work. They’re not a protected species. They’re not the Houston toad or the golden-cheeked warbler. They’re feelings and they come in good, bad, and, as the millennials like to say, meh. If we always tiptoe around them we end up with people like President Trump, who I think we can all agree is the presidential equivalent of a gnarled, dirty, disgusting foot. It’s not pleasant, but some things need to be called out – ideally before they get way out of hand. Now, while I am tempted to say you should berate this grown-ass man into a bottomless shame spiral, I know in my heart the better tack is to give him a gift certificate for a pedicure. If he can’t gracefully take a well-intended, gentle nudge toward clean living, maybe he’s not the guy you think he is.