(Originally Written June 20, 2011)
Snip. Snip. Snip. Click. Then a long pause.
I knew what he was thinking: “Oh, no, where did that last toenail clipping go?” But after a few seconds of silent contemplation, round two of the snipping commenced.
I casually brushed my hand across the letter I was writing to a pen pal, when I found the evidence — a small piece of toenail from my oblivious bunkmate. I flicked it underneath my bed and continued my letter-writing adventure, one sentence at a time, cringing with wretched anticipation as I listened to each snip. (Are some landing on my pillow? In my coffee mug? Should I speak up? And if so, how would one properly broach the topic of flying toenails?) In the end I took a deep breath and swallowed my tongue. I reminded myself, as I frequently do, that I have much bigger problems to worry about — like my pregnant ex-wife, the Lakers being swept in the playoffs by Dallas, or my pending appeal. In the grand scheme of things, a toenail is just a toenail.
Categories: Stephen Newman