A Letter To My ToesHolly Whitney
Last night I painted you purple.
I’m pretty sure this will be the last time I am able to do that for awhile. To be honest with you I wasn’t sure I would be able to pull it off last night. I mean, I can’t even see you right now when I’m standing up without leaning forward a bit. Bending over to touch you? Nearly impossible.
But you needed my attention. You were begging for a little color. Embarrassed by the fact that the doctor might see you naked.
So I went for it.
Let me tell you it was not easy.
First I had to figure out how I was going to get to you without hurting myself. Just what would be the best course of action? Should I try to prop my foot up on the sink and paint you that way? Should I put my leg on my opposite knee and attack it from the side? Or should I just enlist the help of my four year old or my husband and hope for the best?
Nope. Nope. Nope.
Instead I sat on the toilet and propped my foot up on the little stool my 4 year old uses to reach the sink. With my little wand of purple polish in hand I leaned over my giant belly and hoped for the best. If I could do one toe well I thought I could do them all.
One toe down.
Completely out of breath.
But I couldn’t stop now. Not with one purple toe. What about the other nine? Wouldn’t they be jealous if left unattended? Why, yes, they most certainly would.
So I painted each and every one of you ten little toes—huffing and puffing the whole way through. I even managed a top coat.
You look quite lovely all painted up.
Please don’t chip.