On Athlete's Foot

It usually comes on so slowly I don't notice until it's too late. Maybe I wore the same pair of shoes too many times in a row. Maybe I didn't dry my feet well enough after a shower. Maybe I haven't given my feet enough time out of socks. Doesn't matter if any or all caused it, there's always that one time I take off my shoes and suddenly realize how bad they smell. My feet, the shoes, the socks, doesn't matter. It all converges.

Athlete's Foot is a terrible thing in social settings.

It's a terrible thing on one's own, too.

When I was younger, I'd have an infection every month. Dad would have me sit on the side of the bathtub after I'd showered so he could spray my feet with Tinactin antifungal powder and roll a clean sock over each foot. The bathroom would be avoided for at least a half hour after each treatment, it would be so hazy with the stuff. I'd have to wear those socks for 24 hours while the white powder did its magic.

Though one spray rarely fixed the problem, my cases were hardly what one would call extreme. I'd get the excessive dryness over the entire foot and toes. Sometimes it would peel and I'd have to use a pumice stone to scrape it off. But all that's still only the first or second level of the infection.

When the fungus really gets going, nails can turn yellow and rise from their beds. Blisters will form and pop and form again, leaving scars and pockmarks. The body can be taken over, especially the groin area. Children have lost patches of hair on their scalps from this same fungus.

A lot of people freak out over Athlete's Foot. I haven't known any personally, but I'm sure there's someone out there who refuses to exercise or refuses to wear sneakers because they're afraid of it. I do know more than a few people who can't shower in a locker room or their college dorm because they're so paranoid about contracting it.

I laugh, because this seems like such an irrational fear. Sure, those places are ideal locations for the fungus to flourish, but the amount of things we're exposed to and don't contract each day should put the probability into perspective.

All it takes to thwart the fungus is good hygiene. When my father finally got fed up with spraying my feet, he made sure I at least alternated shoes each day and made sure I changed my socks after cross country and track & field practices. When I did get reinfected, he would take my shoes in the backyard and spray them with the Tinactin, leaving me to deal with my own feet.

In the two years since coming to college, I've only had to spray my feet for two separate infections. I never wear "shower shoes" and I don't use antifungal or even antibacterial body wash. I wear a different pair of socks every day and use different ones for exercise that are hung to dry after each use. I don't alternate shoes as much as I should (which is why one pair now needs to be sprayed), but I'm sensitive to how my feet react.

Extreme cases only arise when you're uneducated. Don't run away from something because society's deemed it distinctly "unfabulous." Odds are, you'll have to deal with it eventually, be it for yourself or your kids; knowing how to deal with and treat it gives you all the defense you need.

Pennies, Bras and Phobias

3/16/10 Reading Response

Reading through the section of Dillard's work reminded me of a poem I wrote towards the beginning of high school. Until then, I'd been one of those people who stopped to pick up dropped change no matter its worth (or lack thereof). I'm not entirely sure when that changed. I've recently gotten back into the habit, but that might just be because I'm a college student and any money is welcome.

Lost Pennies

I look upon the ground
as I continue on my way.
How many times that I've
walked by have I seen that penny?
Long ago I would have stopped,
taken time to pick it up,
but now I simply let it rest,
its worth no longer calling.
When did the world diminish such
that I no longer care?
When did the world change so that
the small things do not matter?
We stumble through our lives
seeing only large successes.
We wonder why we are unhappy
when the truth lies just before us.
Perhaps next time I see that penny,
I'll pause to pick it up.
Who knows, I say, what simple things
may return into our lives?
If we begin to care again
about such little gestures
will the world come full circle
and become again its past?

After the Mammalian piece, I found myself looking up this "Last Resort Bra," because I was interested in its alleged existence. Lo and behold, it does exist, but it's breast-ist against those of us smaller than a C cup. Apparently we don't need total immobilization.

Then I got to the On Pests piece. A page or two in and I had to stop reading to go and quell the trouble brewing in my stomach. I hate bees. I was okay with them until I was about 7. I was okay with them until one Fourth of July on a hillside when a group of wasps decided it was a good idea to make their nest on the ground. Where a 7-year-old watching fireworks could step on it. In the dark. With no warning as to what they were about to experience.

Since then, I freeze up exactly like the niece does; rigid, arms clamped to the sides with clenched fists, eyes closed, often shaking. I can't come out of it until a minute or two has passed since the buzzing has faded. Actually having one land on me? Hysterics.

I wouldn't have batted an eyelash over the decision to get rid of the damned things. I don't care if they're "gentle" or "harmless" unless provoked. Bees are perpetually provoked. End of story.

The Riff

There are a number of items I have on my person at all times. Two friendship bracelets, made by my middle school camp kids during the summer; my high school class ring--its third variation after two missizings and a completely incorrect order, and a jade necklace, of either a peacock or a phoenix, can't determine which (though the giver believed it to be a snake) are the accessories that are always equipped. Items that inhabit pockets have a varied order of importance, depending upon my location and my location alone. While at school, the most important is my student ID card, for obvious reasons. While at home my phone takes that title, also for obvious reasons. The runner up is a tube of chapstick.

I don't quite remember when I started using chapstick, though I imagine it was during middle school. I began running Track & Field and Cross Country in middle school, and the constant wind across the lips from breathing through the mouth (I know I'm supposed to breathe through my nose, but I just can't get enough air that way) definitely caused some chapping.

Middle school was also the time my mother took it upon herself to make me more feminine. I'd joined the running sports to avoid her threats of signing me up for the cheer squad. I believe there was one Christmas where my stocking contained nothing but cheap beauty products; lip gloss, eye shadow, brushes, eyeliner and of course, chapstick.

By eighth grade, it had gotten to the point that my lips stopped moisturizing themselves. I required the chapstick. I was addicted. In those first months upon realizing this, there were a number of times I forgot to grab the colorful little tubes. Sometimes I'd get lucky and be with my parents (to this day, my mother has a tube of vanilla chapstick in her purse that the hospital gave her when I was born) or friends. Other times, I would fall into an excruciating pain as my lips dried out and my saliva only made it worse.

I learned quickly after that. These days, the only time that pain is experienced is when a tube gets used up. I've become sensitive even to that, however. The change in weight of the tube and the sharp plastic base at the base of the product are the warning signs. With the change of the weight, the balance of the tube is also thrown off. I know when to start carrying two.

Now, the chapstick itself hasn't changed that much over the years. I refuse the Chapstick brand. Why? They put microscopic bits of fiberglass in their product to cut your lips. That cooling sensation the brand promotes is the result of other ingredients in the product healing the cuts. Blistex feels pasty. Avon is usually alright, but expensive and difficult to come across. Burt's Bees is okay but doesn't give me the level of moisture I need so I find I'm constantly reapplying. Generic brands are hit-or-miss, depending on their formula.

I've always been a Bonnie Bell Lip Smacker girl.

The best perk has to be the variety of flavors offered. If I didn't have the choice, I would be perfectly content with one flavor once I found it (I actually found the "one flavor" of Lip Smackers, but like everything else I like best, the Moon Rock Candy flavor was discontinued). There are only a few types that don't work for me, which allows me to buy in bulk without worry.

Kiwi, Strawberry Kiwi, Fruit Punch, Red Raspberry, Wild Raspberry, Strawberry, Watermelon, Grape, Cherry, Vanilla, Cotton Candy, Lemonade, Pink Lemonade, Squirt, 7UP, Crush, Mountain Dew, Starburst (all the original flavors), Jell-O (Strawberry, Blue Raspberry, Lime, Grape, Strawberry Kiwi, Cherry), Strawberry Gushers, Cinnamon Bun, Peanut Butter Chocolate Cookie, Gingerbread Man, Melon, Strawberry Banana, Tutti Frutti. There's more, but I'm sure the above conveys just how many choices there are. The one I will not touch is Dr. Pepper. Instead of moisturizing, it immediately gives the uncomfortable sensation of the drying out pain.

People don't notice the chapstick, much less when it is changed. The only one that's really been called to attention was the Strawberry Gushers, because of how unusual it was. Sometimes, like with Watermelon, people will notice the smell but they won't outright ask about it.

A single tube lasts about two months. There is no ceremony for switching from one to another. Sometimes I'll ask someone else their opinion of which flavor I should use next. Old tube goes in the garbage, new tube goes in pocket.

Today is Jell-O Strawberry Kiwi. Tomorrow is something completely different.

Our World Day

What do flowers mean to you?

Do you appreciate receiving them for holidays or events like Valentine's Day, weddings or graduations?

Do you know each type's symbolism or ignore that aspect and simply select ones that are prettiest or best-liked?

I have a basic understanding of flowers. Roses are more geared toward love and devotion. Carnations typically say "Get well soon." Tulips have a tendency to signify spring. Red goes to a love. Yellow goes to a friend. Bulbs go to your mother on Mother's Day so she has something cheerful that will come back each season after only one instance of straining her back in the garden planting them. Simple stuff like that.

I've never been the girl who likes getting flowers. Call me overly-practical or whatever, but why would you buy something for someone you care about when it's just going to die? Why waste the money to send such a drab message?

Also, most types you buy don't have the stereotypical smell one expects when thinking of flowers. They very rarely have any scent at all, unless you pay an arm and a leg and then I'm not positive the florist doesn't spray the doomed blossoms with artificial odors. The cross-bred yellow, lavender and red roses lining my driveway might not last as long and might not bloom with the same breath-taking grace, but they smell so much better.

I have given a number of flowers:

A half coconut full of fragrant Hawaiian blossoms left on the table in our hotel room one morning for my mother to wake up to. They were gone when my father and I returned. I had spent the better part of an hour collecting the best-looking blooms that had already fallen off their bushes.

A bag of assorted lily bulbs specially ordered from a catalog went to my mother but she never bothered to plant them. Last I saw them was in the garage on the "junk workbench," still in their red mesh bag.

And of course, I've received my fair share of bouquets.

The dentist's office always has a bucket of carnations, dyed to be appropriate to the nearest holiday, and you're always encouraged to take at least three home with you, because the number "looks better" in a vase. They last until the cats find and eat them.

For one of my six-month anniversaries, my then-boyfriend showed up on my doorstep with not a single, not a dozen, but 14 perfectly crimson roses. They sat on the kitchen table for a week or two before they realized they had perished and were thrown out.

Three corsages, all white roses, sit in their plastic boxes in the back of the refrigerator, wrinkled and desolate. They were from a junior prom and two senior proms during high school--all pomp and circumstance instantly forgotten out of context.

I received a single, long-stem red rose and a Hawaiian-style lei of purple and white flowers from my then-boyfriend for my high school graduation. Both were forsaken within days.

Hosting such little respect for flowers, my appreciation for the colors of the coming spring always baffles me. Pansies and daffodils have sprung forth all over campus. The scent of the bushes bearing purple flowers surrounding McCormick sneaks up on me in the middle of the night. Plum blossoms will soon rain pink on the walkways leading to the north entrance of Marsh Hall. I have an urge to claim one of the bright yellow daffodils as my own.

So I do.

Walking back from my morning class, I spotted a daffodil that must either have been kicked over or collapsed under its own weight. It was still relatively intact, so I plucked it and continued on my way, figuring if it was going to die anyway, it might as well be where I could see it. There were only two bugs on it; I gently brushed them off outside before placing it in an empty tea bottle in the Index Office. I instantly decided I didn't like it as much.

Why? There are a number of possibilities.

The overall feel of the office is warm; the cabinets are a light tan, the walls are creamy beige, our innumerable sticky notes are a muted yellow and there are a number of personal articles in the room that are rather shocking shades of yellow: a cupcake, a poster, a notebook, a bag, a box, a jacket, a handful of No. 2 pencils. The poor daffodil can't compete with artificial colors. It just plain looks better, more cheerful, more inspirational outside, where yellow is not a common color. It brightens the landscape and screams the arrival of spring.

The "game" is over. I have won. I've gotten the end prize and now it's no fun any more. The flowers outside pose more of a challenge because I do not own them.

I rather think it's a little of both, though leaning more towards the former.

My poor daffodil will sit in its tea bottle vase until it wilts and then off to the landfill it will go, hopefully to become fertilizer for future generations of spring flowers, none of which I hope will end up in a vase.