I got a strange email today. The subject read: “Urgent. Open Immediately.” So, I did. No way was I going to take any chances and wait until later when something is labeled urgent. I’m not that dumb.
The email was from someone I didn’t know, and they were very concerned about my health. I guess they were probably a doctor or a scientist – or were up on current events in the world of medicine – because they warned me about my toe fungus.
Toe fungus? I panicked.
I immediately removed my shoes and socks. My feet looked fine. So then, what did they know that I didn’t know? I became nervous. Perhaps I needed to do some research. I didn’t know what toe fungus looked like: what color it was or what harm it caused to the toes or even if you could spot it without a microscope.
My panic increased.
No way did I want vast fields of mushrooms sprouting up between my tootsies! What would people think? The shame. The horror.
I raced into the bathroom, washed both feet thoroughly – six times – and poured an entire bottle of isopropyl alcohol over them. Nothing. They looked the same.
What was I to do – and more importantly, what else was wrong with me that I didn’t know about? Maybe the guy who wrote to me knew more and he just wasn’t telling. It was too much to bear.
I went back to my computer to read the rest of the email. Luckily, near the bottom, the concerned gentlemen told me of a possible cure. They DID have medicine to treat my invisible toe fungus that surely was spreading at an incredible rate.
And then I saw how much the medicine cost, and that it wasn’t covered by insurance. I grew sad, as visions of barefooted beach beauties danced before my teary eyes, knowing that I would no longer be one of them. Unless I tapped into my life savings and retirement fund, my beach days were done.
There was nothing left to do but the sensible thing: I drove to Wal-Mart and bought a large package of winter wool socks. Looks like I will be in hiding for a while.