Warts Up, Doc?

I hate the fact that my title-creation skills are limited to lame puns, much like the headlines in Singapore papers.

I also hate the fact that I have warts. I only knew they were warts today. Viral warts, as a matter of fact. No, not the gross kind that you get from a lady of the night. Mine are on my feet, and they probably arose from walking around on dirty carpet for nine months when I was in Evanston.

I only had one on my right foot initially, and I thought it was a corn, since I'd had those before, but they didn't seem to respond to the medication I slapped on them. It didn't hurt at all, so it was easy to just ignore it. Then slowly, after I returned home, it started spreading, and now I have three. Except I don't really know how they spread because two are on the other foot.

They're actually not that disgusting when you look at them, more like uber-calluses than anything. But they were annoying enough because they were there, such that I finally caved and saw a doctor today.

That's the best thing I can think of about my job, by the way. The medical benefits. I pay five bucks, and that's it. Especially when I feel like slacking taking a day off. Paying five bucks for a medical certificate in exchange for a day off work, that's a great deal.

So anyhow, the doctor looks at it and pronounces his verdict. What can be done, I ask. He says he will shave them down and then freeze them. It might have to be done several times over the next few weeks. I say, bring it on.

He brings a little kit and takes out a razor. That looks sharp. I never really liked sharp things, I get nervous around them. You know, because they cut and all. Then he attaches it to a scalpel handle, which doesn't exactly make me feel good. Then the shaving begins.

With little back-and-forth sawing motions, he shaves off one layer of callused skin after another. It almost looks like someone shaving the skin off an apple, only more gross. I look on in fascination, and also just in case he cuts off anything important, like, oh I dunno, a toe.

He shaves for a bit more, then goes, "This is a deep one." Well, it has been there for over six months. Good thing it's only dead skin and doesn't hurt. He does it for as much as he feasibly can without taking any flesh off, then moves on to the other foot. Those are a lot shallower.

He then gets out a little canister. I ask if it's liquid nitrogen. "Something like that," he replies. There is an attachment on the front, like a thin straw with a cotton ball on the end. He presses the cotton end into the biggest wart-crater and presses down on the button. "This will sting a little, so tell me when it starts to hurt."

Seconds pass.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

More seconds pass.

"Still nothing?"

"Nope."

"It's really a deep one."

...

"OK, maybe I'm feeling something."

"OK."

He stops, and moves on to the next foot. To tell you the truth, I'm not really sure I felt anything. Maybe I was doing it just so he wouldn't feel bad.

...

"Anything yet?"

"Nope."

...

"No?"

"No."

...

"Uh-huh, a little."

He repeats it for the third and final wart.

"Anything?"

"Nuh-uh."

...

"No?"

"No."

"You're really..."

He trails off. I'm assuming he thinks I'm tough. I hope. Or maybe he thinks I'm just dead inside.

"Sure you feel nothing?"

"Actually I don't know if what I feel is the freezing or you squeezing my toe."

He lets go of my toe and does it again.

"OK, it wasn't you squeezing."

Maybe I should've told him how my tattoo hurt less than I thought it would. If I can take a tattoo, this should be easy as pie.

Anyway I'm supposed to see him in ten days, and put salicylic acid on them in the meantime. Let's hope it works. Meanwhile, don't wear my shoes. These damned things can spread.