the man who wanted to collect my toes

I warn you now. This is a post about feet. Or, to be more precise, a post about toes. Toes and feet. Let me assure you that it isn't a subject I'd normally put much thought into, but, for once, I think I probably should. You see, my feet were recently the center of a very bizarre encounter I had in Manhattan, and it's one worth sharing with people, if only for the sake of a few laughs. (Or shudders, which ever.)

I can't go any further without mentioning a few facts about my feet. They are small, well arched and always pedicured. I don't like feet per se, but it's important to take care of them, since I'm always walking around in flip-flops. A lot of people seem to agree with me, too. I've had men (and yes, it's always guys) do everything from thank me for my 'pretty feet' to try to guess my shoe size. Sometimes it's funny, sometimes it's a little creepy, but most of the time I don't think anything at all of it.

With all this in mind, now try and picture me sitting in a park in downtown Manhattan a few weeks ago. It's sunny, warm, and the perfect weather for sandals -- which, of course, I'm wearing. I'm sitting on a bench studying notes for class, happily soaking up some sun and listening to the conversations of people walking by.

Now imagine a rotund little man shuffling up to me. He stops still in front of me and begins to stare pointedly at my toes. I'm looking a little put off and confused by this, and am startled when he tells me I have "nice feet." My first impulse is to ask something along the lines of 'What am I, a horse?' Instead, though, I just nod politely and say thanks.

The man takes this for an opening to talk to me, and informs me, yet again, that I have nice feet. He seems especially taken with my toes. "Cute toes!" he coos at me. At this point I want to tuck my feet up under me so he can't see them anymore, but I just lamely continue to sit in the same position I have been all afternoon.

"I collect toes," he goes on to say. "I have books and books of toes."

Now this, I think, is starting to get creepy. The man is staring at my feet like a lecherous pimp and smiling a strange, twisted little grin. He sits down next to me and starts his monologue all over again. "I like your toes. Pretty toes. Nice feet."

I've had enough at this point, so I tell him, point blank, "I'm really busy right now. I don't have time for this."

To my surprise he gets up. "Alright then, "he says, "I'll leave you alone now. But you keep taking care of those feet."

"Oh yeah. I will," I tell him.

And thus concludes my posting on feet.