This is a ridiculous essay, and a serious one, too. We can be silly and sober in the same breath, can we not?

And so I will begin, when almost two years ago, I noticed that the nail on the second toe of my left foot appeared to be afflicted by a fungus. A fungus often thickens the free edge of the nail, sometimes extending all the way down to the cuticle. The nail usually turns a yellowish-white color, and if you let it go, you might find yourself with what appears to be a purplish-black rotting stub, fit for a feature on TLC’s show My Feet Are Killing Me.

Mine was not that far gone, but I was troubled as to how I had contracted the fungus. After all, I’m a clean person, right?

Turns out that toenail fungus is no respecter of persons. I don’t have diabetes or a circulation problem, two big risk factors, but I’m getting older by the day. Around ten percent of the population has a toenail fungus, but if you’re over 70, that number jumps to 50%.

I’m closer to 70 than I am to 20, so my chances of winning the toenail fungus lottery are increasing with each passing day.

But an injury to the toenail is one way that a fungus can start, and I remembered stubbing that toe on a doorframe inside my house on a sleepy morning before I had my daily caffeine infusion of coffee. My current pedicure had also been done at a nail salon, so I then imagined how a buffet of spores from prior clients must have been floating around in the water, despite the salon’s cleaning protocol.

I would ask the doctor about it at my next appointment which was coming up within a month, but I was embarrassed about the fungus, so I slapped on some coats of my favorite shade of pink and went on with my life.

I went to the doctor’s appointment, and I was checking out before I remembered the fungus. Besides, my toenails were covered in polish, and I wasn’t going to pick around that toe and risk spreading the fungus to my fingernails. It could wait.

So it waited, while I was called back for a follow-up mammogram, then a biopsy, then an excision, then a cancer diagnosis, then a bilateral mastectomy.

Dang. I should have just asked them to look at my toenail. I didn’t need all that other stuff.

I kept polish on my toenails for most of that time so I would feel better about myself. There were too many other big and scary things going on, but pink toenails lighten the mood. 

Besides, feet are one of those body parts that just look weird. You ever take a good long look at a foot? It’s like some kind of alien apparatus that appears too small to support our bodies. Our toes are stubby little appendages that come in all shapes and sizes, looking more like they belong on an stationary sea creature implanted on the ocean floor that uses them to attract food by wiggling them back and forth. 

Here, fishy, fishy.

And foot problems? Some are just downright gross. I’ve been in discussions about what kind of doctor sees the most disgusting cases, and a podiatrist is usually high on the list. 

Ingrown toenails, long and clawy toenails, bunions, calluses, corns, dead skin, warts.

Funguses of all varieties.

Feet are nasty. Feet are unclean. Feet stink. No wonder the washing of feet was considered among the lowliest of tasks in Bible times, assigned to the most low-ranking of slaves in a household. Did Peter have a secondary reason he didn’t want Jesus to wash his feet? Did he have a raging case of athlete’s foot? 

So after I made it through all the other physical issues, I made an appointment with a dermatologist who took one look at my toenail and prescribed a topical treatment. She also took a sample of the nail to send off to determine whether it was really a fungus, and if so, what type. 

I went to the pharmacy to get the treatment—a clear liquid that came in a bottle much like nail polish, complete with a brush-tipped applicator, yet the pharmacist must have taken one look at me and thought, “Fungus Girl. She’s unclean and ignorant. I must explain the application process in detail.”

So I patiently endured his “counseling,” as he called it. Funny how the application method is the same used in painting nails, except that the medication needs to coat the cuticle as well as the sides of the nail. 

About like the sloppy work of a four-year-old attempting her first at-home manipedi.

It didn’t take a five-minute mansplaining lecture to get the point across.

The experience did not make me feel kindly toward my fungus toe, and as soon as I got home from the appointment, I covered it back up. I had only removed the polish from that toenail, and I wanted to look presentable and normal. 

Beautiful. Not judged for having an ugly fungus toenail, although it wasn’t the worst one I’d ever seen. Yes, I’d looked at others’ toenails before, and I’d judged.

Never again.

A few weeks later, the dermatologist’s office contacted me with the results—yes, it was a fungus, and we’re going to call in a prescription pill for you to take. As an added bonus, we will schedule a follow-up appointment to draw blood to check your various levels because the medication can damage your liver.

Thanks, but no thanks. The office girl seemed a little taken aback that I had refused the offer of a more in-depth, potentially liver-damaging treatment. 

Instead, I waited until the freezing temperatures of fall and winter came to begin the process. I’d made it all that time with my fungus toe, so what’s a couple more months’ wait?

And you know what? That topical treatment worked, and I am now the happy owner of ten clean and beautiful toenails that I haven’t yet painted this spring. There is no shade of pink more beautiful than that of my own healthy nailbed.

Others might look down at my feet and think, wow, she’s being earthy this year.

Judge on, ye judgers, for I care not anymore.

That polish is coming, when I get in the mood and have the time, but no more nail salons for me. I’m a do-it-yourself pedicurist from here on out.

But I’m not ready to cover up the most beautiful toenail in the world.