Yesterday I asked a miss who works at Walgreen's to unlock the cabinet, as there was something in there much needful to me. The local Walgreen's locks up certain categories of merchandise, because neighborhood street people keenly desire it but are sometimes quite averse to paying the price. Which is understandable, as jars of instant coffee and tubes of personal lubricant may seem expensive to people in their circumstances.
She happily obliged, and I thanked her for the help. But I do not know how comfortable I am that an attractive young woman has seen a side of me of which I would rather that she remained ignorant.
I have a horrible confession.
I use foot powder.
No, I do not have a raging case of athlete's foot that if left untreated would consume everything between the toenails and the groin. My feet are not smelly monstrosities that repel the innocent and clear out auditoriums.
I just want my tootsie-wootsies to be comfortable.
Powdered feet are positive feet.
A foot powder of decent quality ensures podal salubrity and joyfulness.
I have been dosing on foot powder for a very long time now.
Because I enjoy the nice cool feeling it gives me.
Oooh, silky to the touch!
Charming young ladies do not need to know the secrets of masculine feet. It does not add to their sense of security and well-being, and may in fact detract from their happy innocence.
If I ever were to invite her join me for dinner, for instance, I would not want her to say "no, because you are older than Jayzis, AND you have nasty-ass feet!"
This is is just one of the things that crossed my mind when asking her to unlock the shelf where the foot care products are kept.
I want her to consider my nether extremities in only the nicest terms.
If she is to contemplate them at all.
I like my feet. Please do not think ill of them.
Next week: socks.
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