Yesterday I experienced that all too infrequent mild euphoria that accompanies clipping my toe nails. TMI? No? I didn’t think so either. What’s that? You thought this post was about Blake Griffin, Chris Paul, and the Lob City Clippers? You were way off. I got you so good.
But seriously, you know the feeling I’m describing… when you clip that just slightly too-long nail that somehow missed it’s turn the last time and has been digging into its neighboring toe. I know you know, but how does this go unnoticed in the first place? The sad fact is that your feet are like the offensive linemen of your body’s team. As long as they do their job well, everything is fine and everyone else gets the credit for all of the great accomplishments being accomplished, but one false start… one broken bone and all eyes are on that stupid foot. “Oh, there’s that stupid foot again. He’s always screwing things up for us. All we wanted to do was play some basketball or take a shower without having to keep him sealed up in a Ziploc bag. What a diva!”
All the blame and none of the glory, but that’s where the clipping comes in. Once every week or two you bust out those clippers and go to town. Oh the satisfaction of trimming those keratin claws! (I would assume a similar jubilance ensues when cutting the fingernails as well, but alas, I suffer in the habitual bondage of nail biting, left to merely fantasize of snipping and filing a one-day-beautiful nail collection.)
Perhaps I’m over romanticizing the idea, but then again, maybe I’m not. Do you experience “Clipper’s High”?