As summer is coming, I’ve been feeling pretty self-conscious about my wart.

Finally, after suffering privately with the shame of it for many months, I sought help at Dr. K.’s office today.

Nurse Glenda ushered Shef and me into our exam room.

“And where’s your wart?” she smiled.

“It’s here!” I blurted, gesturing toward my left toe. “It’s huge and nasty!”

“Um hmmm,” she confirmed, nodding and making notes. Shef clearly agreed with this assessment and made several heartfelt, but unsuccessful, attempts to escape its proximity during the appointment:



Later, Dr. K. arrived, determined my wart to be “gigantic,” and pared down the callous on top of it with a scalpel. Finally, she assembled the necessary tools for cyrotherapy:



After several painful treatments,



she pronounced me suitably frozen.



“Now,” she said, “a wart this size generally requires two or three treatments. When the blister [which, by the way, is FAR too repulsive to picture here] breaks, send me an email and let me know what’s going on.”

Swell. In the meantime, you better believe I'll be wearing socks.