Polydactylism: Too Many Piggies?

A creature with extra digits is referred to in biology as polydactyl. In my case I have six fully formed, fully functional toes on my right foot. An extra toe...isn't that queer? If I did drag, my stage name would have to be Polly Dactyl (but where would I find heels that fit?).

As far as I can tell, the bone that would normally go to the smallest toe on the far right forked to provide the skeletal support inside the bonus toe. Unless you took time to count them you wouldn't perceive anything out of the ordinary. During the first few days after my birth, my mother didn't notice the extra toe because my foot looked perfectly normal. The nurses on duty waited for her to realize on her own. Before long my mother discovered that if she intended to play "This Little Piggie" with me, she would have to improvise an activity to describe the lifestyle of that extra piggie.

Although an additional digit may have nothing to do with it, as a child I remember smacking my far right toe into doorjambs and table legs. I stubbed my toe so forcefully on one occasion that I still have a bit of a warp in the surface of the nail. I attribute my abused toe to youthful clumsiness, because I also fell down our basement stairs more often than I would have preferred. I survived three bumpy rides that ended with a smashing finish on a concrete floor at the base. Years ago I joked to a friend that those three headlong trips down the stairs caused me to be gay. One trip would have had little or no effect; two trips would have made me a little bi. After three trips, however, I am left with an appreciation for Broadway musicals and impeccable taste in gifts. "I'll tumble for 4 ya," boys. I only wish that the objects of my affection had at least as much compassion as those uncarpeted wooden steps.

Walk a mile in my 13EEEE shoes

Shoe shopping has always been a compromise between style and comfort; each passing year, I nudge comfort higher up on my priority list. When I am finally ready to retire my current pair of athletic shoes, I usually seek out an all-purpose, no-frills design that I can wear until its seams begin to split (all you shoe queens out there can strike me off your list of potential husband material). Experience has taught me to skip the malls. If I see something intriguing in a store window there, I can assume, before the salesperson has a chance to say, "May I help you?" that the design won't be wide enough. Most of the trendy styles are produced and stocked in a limited range of standard sizes. Nature endlessly flaunts its sense of humor; my mother has trouble finding shoes that are suitably narrow.

Dress shoes have been less of a problem than sport shoes. If you are willing to accept the limitations of archaic, conservative foot-level fashion, you will find that a number of manufacturers produce "footwear for grown-ups" with extra width. One local retailer of wide shoes, Lebo's, has the best selection, but also the most crudely aggressive (and homophobic) sales staff this side of an automobile dealership. I steel myself for the onslaught, and, instead of wasting my time browsing and grousing, ask to see only the handful of styles available in my size.

If I find a comfortable pair of shoes with enough room, I forget about my biological anomaly. I should be more diligent in remembering my special gift. Aside from the novelty, and usefulness at parties, my extra digit could do wonders for my social life. Telling some potential love interest that I have something extra "downstairs" could only work in my favor.

All this talk about feet reminds me that, if I intend to keep my promise to rejoin the human race, I'm going to need a new pair of running shoes.

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