Polydactyly
If you were me you would understand my need for wide shoes. The wider the better, which of course makes high heels a pipe dream. Never will they find their way onto my wish list. It’s a harsh reality, but I have accepted Jimmy Choo and I will never date. Stilettos may have a certain bewitching appeal; transforming the calf muscle into a sex machine for some. This is a journey I and my eleventh toe will never walk. But we don’t mind.
Yes. You heard me right. I have eleven toes. Five on my right foot, six on my left. The sixth toe on my left foot sits up all high and mighty on top of my pinky toe with an air of authority. This is why I decided to give her an appropriate name. I call my eleventh toe Queen Elizabeth. There is no other toe quite like her. Not that I’ve seen. If she was in a line up, if pressed, I am aware one might describe her as a cross between the ring toe and the pinky toe, but that would be an unfair assessment. I’ve always considered any reference to a half breed to be derogatory, with good reason. I suspect you would agree. Queen Elizabeth is just one of a kind. Of life and limb, we were born into this world together and when we go out, a few bonus phalanges will go out with us.
Isn’t it true parents are known to count all the fingers and all the toes when they hold their newborns for the first time? What if my mother thought she had counted wrong on the day of my birth? I can’t imagine she was in the least bit concerned at the revelation because when I was growing up my mother never made me feel any kind of way about Queen Elizabeth. But there were repercussions. Kids can be cruel. When I got teased by the kids down at the lake, my mother would confront them claiming they were just jealous because only Kings and Queens were born with extra toes. If anyone tried to protest her explanation, she would stand up and stare them down with a predictable “off with their head” kind of vibe. Beyond fearing my mother, I suppose the novelty of my eleventh toe must have eventually worn off since if there were any lingering whispers in between splashes about me and Queen Elizabeth, shade only came from the Eastern white pines bordering the lake.
Years back, it was Aunt Francis, my father’s mother’s sister, who said at the Thanksgiving dinner table, “Why don’t you take her to a surgeon and cut that damn thing off already?” My mother disregarded the question as if Aunt Francis hadn’t uttered a word. Instead she politely asked not one but two change the subject questions, “Will you please pass the dinner rolls?” And. “Aunt Francis what are you grateful for this Thanksgiving?”
From across the table, I recognized the death stare lingering all over my mother’s face.
There would be an extra seat at the table the following year.
Perhaps Aunt Francis had not grasped that in our house we had always been and will always be an “embrace your God given gifts” kind of folk, and that way of thinking goes hand and hand with gratitude. So when Momma said to me, “What are you thankful for,” this past Thanksgiving, I replied,
“I am thankful for the designer genius of Orthofeet sneakers with stretchable uppers and extra wide toe box.”
Momma then winked at me and I winked back while wiggling my comfortable eleventh toe.