byChrisWhite – 2019

Here we are in 2019, and yet still, no jet packs. The science-fiction dreams of my youth have fizzled into nothing more than a far-off haze. Not a whisper of anti-gravity boots, no teleportation pods, heck, we can’t even get a microwave that pops every kernel of popcorn in the bag.

Meanwhile, I still can’t find a satisfactory answer to why I was born without pinky toenails. I mean, the absence of those little keratin caps on my nethermost digits is, quite frankly, a blemish upon my otherwise dignified existence.

When I was young, I was perfectly content with my mother’s explanation: “You’re the youngest of four, Chris. I just ran out of those things by the time you came along.” It had the succinctness of truth, the kind of answer that only a tired mother could concoct and present with a weary smile.

And, back then, I believed it. Why wouldn’t I? She was, after all, the supreme authority in my young life, and if she said toenails were like spare buttons that might get used up on the elder siblings, then that was just the way it was.

But now that I’m in my middle age, I find myself struggling with that perfectly sound explanation. And, quite frankly, I’m getting a little hot under the collar that the National Institutes of Health have not allocated a single dime to investigate the matter.

The moon was walked upon fifty years ago, but not a soul seems interested in solving the Great Toenail Mystery of my life. Priorities, I suppose.

It’s hard to imagine that I’m the only human on this blue planet afflicted with such a conspicuous absence. Surely there are other pinky-toe-nail-less folks walking, or hobbling, around this earth, wondering why evolution decided they were better off with bare-toed stubs.

And just last week, Emily, in her endless pursuit of answers, asked the lady at the pedicure salon whether this was a common affliction. Her answer was surprisingly comforting: “Oh yes, verwee verwee common, many good customers have foot like you.” That was good enough for a moment.

But then she turned to her colleague, and I heard her say something in Vietnamese. Now, my grasp of the Vietnamese language is about as solid as my grasp of quantum mechanics, but I went home and did my research.

Near as I can tell, what she said translates roughly to, “This man take off shoe and is real different.” Different, huh? I suppose that’s one word for it. But I’d prefer something a bit more distinguished, something like “unique” or “evolutionarily advanced.” I doubt that’s what she meant, though.

No one seems to know. Even Wikipedia, the accepted authority of modern knowledge, offers nothing on the matter. The closest I found was a podiatrist in Iowa stating, with all the grand authority of a man who knows nothing more than I do, that some folks simply don’t have toenails on certain toes. Well, thank you, Doctor Obvious, but that wasn’t exactly the enlightenment I was hoping for.

Every time I strip off my shoes in public, I feel like the center attraction at a carnival sideshow. There they are, my perfect, nail-less pinky toes, sitting there like two bald-headed spectators at a rock concert, just trying to blend in but never quite managing.

It’s embarrassing. And if that weren’t enough, I still have to pay full price for my pedicures, which, if you ask me, is nothing short of highway robbery. Shouldn’t there be a discount for a reduced workload? It’s not like they’re polishing up ten perfect nails here. A little pinky-toe sympathy would go a long way, and maybe even score me a few bucks off.

Frankly, I think I deserve some kind of accommodation, a blue handicap placard for my car, for starters. That way, when I’m hobbling across the parking lot on my imperfect, unadorned toes, I’d have a bit less distance to cover, and a bit less time to dwell on my lack of appropriately formed appendages.

But no, here I am, in 2019, still without jet packs, and still without answers. Yet somehow, scientists have found the time to answer some truly burning questions. For instance, thanks to a groundbreaking study, we now know how long it takes the average mammal to urinate: twenty-one seconds, give or take thirteen.

Yes, a global effort to determine that the typical bladder can empty itself in less time than it takes to microwave a burrito. I’m glad someone got their grant money’s worth.

And it gets better. Did you know that we now have definitive data on where a bee sting hurts the most? It turns out, if you’re curious, that the nostril, the upper lip, and, wait for it, the penis shaft, are the worst places to get stung. Good news for the ladies, I suppose, though I can’t say I’m keen on the particulars of how this study was carried out.

Someone, somewhere, got a stipend to determine that nugget of truth, and now it sits preserved forever in the annals of scientific literature. Meanwhile, I’m still over here, unadorned toes wiggling in the wind, waiting for answers.

And let’s not forget the all-important discovery that a chicken walks funny when you attach a weighted stick to its behind. Yes, we live in a world where chickens are waddling around with weights strapped to their tail feathers, all in the name of human curiosity. It’s a wonder I can sleep at night with all this groundbreaking knowledge piling up.

What I need, what the world needs, is for one of these esteemed researchers to have a kid who’s lacking a little something “down there,” and maybe, just maybe, they’ll beg the question: “Why no toenail?” Perhaps if someone could show a correlation between the birth rate of no-nailers and climate change, we’d finally get the attention we deserve. After all, if the plight of my pinky toes could be linked to rising CO2 levels, there’d be a think tank funded by breakfast.

In the meantime, I’ve decided to take a different approach. I’m crafting a backstory, something suitably dramatic, something with a touch of mystique. I sacrificed my pinky toenails to save the planet. Yes, I’m a hero of sorts, a selfless savior who gave up the smallest parts of himself for the greater good.

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. So the next time someone raises an eyebrow at my bare pinky toes, I’ll meet their gaze, steely-eyed and resolute. “You want a toenail?” I’ll say, channeling my inner Big Lebowski. “I can get you a toenail. Believe me, I’ll get you two.” And maybe then, just maybe, I can look people in the eye again.