podiatrist

My new podiatrist listened to my story about the long walk, about the weird but slowly improving sensation on my right sole. Then he looked at my feet. He cocked his head to the side and said, "Well, considering what you're working with, I think you're doing a pretty good job."

Dr. P. is a full on lunatic, the kind of character whom one is surprised to discover actually exists in real life and not merely in sitcoms. He's the kind of guy that local newspaper stories are written about. When he shook my hand, he said, "Welcome to the Funny Farm!" One eye is squinchy and the other bugs out while he tells thrilling, dramatic stories about the roles of the various footbones. He handed me a skeleton foot. He furiously drew pictures on a whiteboard as though we were in the last seconds of the Final Four. He described gory dissections that he has partaken in that contribute to his understanding of my personal issues. The word "gusto" was invented for this man.

He looked at my current inserts and shook his head in a pitying fashion.

He recommended custommade orthotics costing about 500 dollars. I did quick calculations. Yesterday I spent 600 dollars on Dieter. How much should I spend on my feet? Aren't they more important than my car? Adding together the new 170 dollar hiking boots, the 35 co-pay, and the possible new inserts, it seems that my feet are pulling ahead in that race.

As Dr. P. whirled out the door, I balked at the price of the inserts. He looked at me gravely and said, "I think we know it's time."

He started down the hall and turned back to call out: "For now, you should really try to stay off your feet." I laughed. Podiatrist and comedian all in one.