My left toenail.

If you’re squeamish about things like fungus and toenails, stop reading now. Seriously. Because we’re about to talk feet, specifically my left foot, more specifically my left toenail. And even Daniel Day-Lewis wouldn’t want a role in THIS movie.

For those who don’t know me, I’m going to confess right now that my feet are probably on some Weapons of Mass Destruction list. They’re more like - well, hooves. I’m just not a high-maintenance kind of girl. I once stepped on a tack and didn’t even notice until I walked on the floor barefoot and heard a clicking sound. My husband makes the best of a bad situation, using my heels to scratch his legs in bed.

I’ve had three pedicures in my life. The first was for my wedding, because if there’s ever a time for your feet to look presentable, it’s at your own wedding. For my sister’s wedding, she and I went to some pedicure sweatshop in Brooklyn, where a poor underaged Chinese girl slaved over my feet for at least an hour. She slowly worked her way up from the sandpaper file to a small cheese grater.

Finally, in desperation, she went into some back room and got an industrial-sized electric implement like a rototiller. I could practically hear her thinking: There has to be human flesh in here somewhere! When I left after getting my toenails painted, she was still sweeping up the foot shavings. I felt so bad for her, I tipped her more than she probably made in a week.

So on my 40th birthday, I decided I should not wait another three decades to do some basic foot maintenance. Unfortunately, I made this decision at the Dimond Center. In any other part of America, the Dimond Center would be classified as a semi-secure facility for teen runaways, or maybe a rest stop on the way to Hell circa 1978; here in Anchorage, it passes as a fine shopping mall. Among its amenities are an Old Navy, a Gap, a skating rink, several professional offices, and a bowling alley. You can give blood, join the Navy, get some Dippin’ Dots, go to church, and even gamble, all in one convenient location! What other mall in the world can boast of a taxidermied musk ox on display?

Oh, yeah - and there’s a nail salon. Because nothing says “I’m turning forty today” like a super-cheap pedicure. Anyway, my pedicurist turned out to be a young Korean guy who had just flown in from Seattle the day before. I guess it should have occurred to me to ask him whether he had any qualifications to work with sharp tools on my feet, besides being willing to touch them.

I left with my feet looking lovely and didn’t notice till the polish flaked off a couple of months later that my left big toenail was looking a little scurvy-ish. Over time, it got worse and eventually fell off. To my horror, what grew back looked more like the surface of the moon than a normal toenail.

Yes, I got a fungal infection for my 40th birthday.

My sister suggested treating it with tea tree oil, but that didn’t make much of a difference, other than to make the bathroom floor really slippery. Fortunately, I live in Alaska, where you can go year-round without ever exposing your feet to the world.

Our recent vacation in Hawai’i posed more of a problem, because it’s pretty hard to wear boots in the ocean. And my dear friend Trudi, who lives there, is a big fan of what she calls “toe cleavage” - that little line caused by wearing open-toed shoes that squish together your big toe and the one next to it in a suggestive manner.

Toe cleavage requires presentable toenails. One time, she painted my toenails bright aquamarine and, on the canvas of my then-healthy big toenail, created a Hawai’ian beach scene - palm trees, ocean waves, stars - all in beautiful sparkly silver stickers. It was an absolute work of art. A couple of weeks later, it looked more like an Appalachian trailer park. On this recent trip I didn’t dare let her get within a yard of my feet, for fear she would see their sorry condition and amputate them altogether.

Finally, after I fell in a parking lot last winter and was sure I’d broken my tailbone, I went to a doctor. What with him feeling my ass and everything, I figured I might as well show him the rogue toenail. It’s a common problem, he assured me, and could be cured easily by anesthetizing my foot and removing the entire nail. Of course, I’d just have to be on crutches for a couple of weeks.

Oh, right. Like I have time to be on crutches. I don’t have time to brush my hair, for fuck’s sake. So, for TWO YEARS NOW, I’ve been walking around with a grey toenail and a list in my purse that reads approximately as follows:

Upstairs toilet fixed
Drink more water
Clean garage
Get toenail removed
Pick up dog’s medicine

It’s too bad there’s no toenail fairy bringing you cash for putting your old toenails under your pillow, because I would be so filthy rich right now. For now, I’m just hoping grey nail polish will be the next fashion trend, because I’d really like to go barefoot on my 43rd birthday.