I have some good news to report.For a few days, I thought I had a horrible foot disease. No matter how much I washed my feet, they kept turning yellow. In fact, the more I washed my feet, the more they turned yellow. I went to get a pedicure to see if maybe they just needed a little tender love and care, and they looked good. For a while. Then, a few hours after getting home, the yellow was back! Naturally, I turned to the Internet, which informed me that I could have anything from a relatively harmless fungus to some incurable autoimmune disease eventually leading to blindness and other terrible things. I was worried. I was ashamed. I was ready to take myself and my yellow feet to the doctor. I have a very slight tendency to be a little overly dramatic. If my stomach hurts, I start looking up the symptoms of stomach cancer. If I have a migraine, I turn to the Internet to assure myself that I’m not having an aneurysm. So obviously, my yellow feet lead me to believe I’d be going blind in 15-20 years.
But then a thought struck me. Could it be the wood floor in my room that’s turning my feet yellow? It seemed to make sense. More sense than a deadly disease, anyway. The floor’s got to be at least a few decades old and it has a slight yellow tinge to it. And after showering, I always walk around the room with slightly wet feet, so it’s logical that the more I wash my feet, the more radioactive they look. So I did a little test with my finger and voila: Cause of yellow foot disease discovered!
I feel like my life is full of these kinds of stories: Me making little things huge, short-term infatuations and curiosities magnified. It’s like in Amelie, when she finds all the passport pictures of the one man and starts making up all kinds of stories about his life, what all the self-portraits could mean, the significance of them, et cetera, only to find out he’s the guy who fixes passport photo booths and the don’t actually mean anything. Sometimes I think my English degree has made me over-analyze everything to the point where I look for significance in a shattered window or an old, broken down car. This does not bode well for being realistic. Sometimes I forget that life isn’t a book and not everything has a metaphorical or symbolic meaning. I guess I will just have to accept that sometimes, things are exactly as they appear.
Categories: Really Stupid Things I've Done