December 2, 2015 Article

The Old Coot is partial to mushrooms.

By Merlin Lessler

I have an orange toenail. I don’t know why. I didn’t do anything to deserve it. When I asked my doctor about it he gave me his usual response, the one he gives me whenever I ask him what’s going on, "You’ve got to expect that at your age!” He sent me to a podiatrist. She took one look and said, “Fungus!” What a horrible word. I know the medical field is obsessed with the Latin language: I wish just once in a while they would the English word, which in this case is “mushroom.” If she told me a mushroom had invaded my toenail I would have felt a lot better. She gave me a prescription and sent me on my way. I hope the next time she orders a steak smothered in mushrooms the waiter corrects her and says, “You mean steak with fungus don’t you?”

The prescription did nothing for my orange toenail, but it did help my sore back by making me bend down to apply a dab of goop on it every day, stretching it and easing the soreness. I finally told myself I could live with an orange toenail. It’s moot in comparison to the destruction process my body has been undergoing since I became an old coot. An orange toenail is kind of a bright spot. A little anomaly that doesn’t affect me at all except when I’m at the beach and some kid points to it and yells to his mother, “Look at that guy; he’s got an orange toenail!”

That kid’s reaction got me to call one of those places that advertise on TV. The ones that claim a 30-minute laser treatment will eliminate toe “mushrooms” (Except, they use the Latin word.) “How much?” I asked. “We can’t tell you that over the phone; you have to come in and let us have a look.” Even when I asked for a range of cost, they declined to answer. Come in! Come In! It felt just like it does when I deal with automobile salesmen and try to find out how much I’ll get on a trade. They never answer on the showroom floor. They make you go into their office and try to soften you up with friendly chatter. “How’s the family?” – “How’s your golf game?” – “You liking this warm spell?” I had a feeling the laser place would be just like that so I said I’d call back later to make an appointment.

Then I got lucky. I dropped a hammer on my little toe. The nail turned black. Nobody got in my face at the beach. Just the opposite. I got pity. “Ouch! What did you do to your toe?” Pity felt a lot better than, “Yuck! Look at that guy’s toe! It’s orange!” I think I’ll get some black toenail polish and change my big toenail from orange to black. I asked my wife what she thought of my plan. She’s as curt as my doctor when she responds to one of my old coot complaints. “What are you obsessing about? An orange toenail? My gosh! You should focus on the coffee stains on your shirt, the mismatched socks on your feet, your sweater on inside out and your eyebrows that look like corkscrews!”

I’m getting the nail polish anyway. I can use the pity. And just the opposite of the popular Netflix series - “Orange is the new black.” – Black, will be my new orange.