I am (finally) my father's daughter

Aug 28, 2007 at 2:21 PM
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The story starts about 6-8 weeks ago, innocently enough. I needed something from my desk in the middle of the night, got up from bed, walked to the living room and stubbed my little toe on the suitcase still sitting on the floor. I let out a couple choice swear words and grabbed it, knowing that's how you get something to stop hurting...you grab it. (I also learned this from Dad and the Tale of the Severed Thumb... he grabbed it and it didn't hurt anymore, right? I mean, if you'd just cut off a body part you'd think you'd be screaming so grabbing it must dull the pain somehow.)

I sat in my chair for a few minutes, holding on to my toe, then got what I needed and went back to bed (I let go of my toe to do that back to bed part). When I get back to bed, I happen to look at my hands and there is blood there. What the heck?! Where did blood come from? I look... ah yes, the toe. It was coming from under the nail. I poked at it a little bit (another Dad trait) and decided that while it felt sort of like a loose tooth and was sorta an oozy kind of gross, it didn't need emergency room care so I threw a Spongebob Squarepants glow in the dark bandaid on it and went to bed.

It seemed to bleed (kinda) for the next couple of days and felt a bit tender, but a steady stream of more Spongebob bandaids and I was well on the way to recovery.

Time passes. There is no longer a need for a bandaid, my toe (and nail) seem fine. I clip it (the nail), put nail polish on it (this is not a Dad thing, just for the record), take that off and put another kind on.. this is all pretty normal stuff in the life of my toenails, they have it pretty easy.

Then comes this past Saturday. I am sitting in my chair with my feet up on the ottoman and looking at my feet (an experience I don't recommend in general) and think to myself "Self, maybe you should paint your toenails again, that pinky toenail's lost all its polish!" It then occurs to me that that statement doesn't make sense. Normally you'd see wear, but it's completely illogical that my one toenail has had the polish completely worn off (not a trace left) when the other 9 piggies are still covered.

Then it hit me. That is a naked toenail. I look closer. It's a thin, naked toenail. A short, thin, naked toenail that looks nothing like the toenail that was there 24 hours earlier. A toenail that's a baby toenail. A new toenail.

I am able to regenerate toenails. I think I am an X-Man (albeit, a really crappy one. What kind of mutant wants to be able to grow toenails?!).

Without me knowing it, I had a ninja toenail growing under my apparently dead one on top. Which TOTALLY acted alive... I mean, I CLIPPED IT. At no time did it turn black or nasty or give any indication of being a zombie toenail hanging on as cover for its little brother toenail. Gross.

So, now I've lived through the "losing a toenail" experience that I seem to remember Dad doing a lot. Honestly, this wasn't the bonding experience that I was looking for, but I have to be honest when I say that I stubbed my toe, swore and through of you, Dad. Then, looking at my brand new toenail, I knew you'd appreciate it. I should have saveed this story for Fathers Day, now that I think of it.

Oh, I also learned that just because you grab at a mashed or mutliated body part, it doesn't mean that it's not going to fall off anyway when you least expect it. Now I know why men are so scared when they get hit in the crotch.

(Now I just hope I don't start being my siblings sister... I'm not sure I want black eyes and fractured bones)