You're just dying to know what this is all about, aren't you?

I can’t think of any secret I haven’t broadcast on this blog. (Well. Oh yeah… Hmm. Ooh la la… Forget it. I’m taking that one to the grave. Sorry.) Back to my open-book nature…that’s because I’m an idiot a trusting soul. But I have to share this rather embarrassing discovery, more as a public service announcement than anything I want to serve as a lasting memorial after I die or get a real job.

Against my better judgement, which is pathetic on a good day, I decided to try a different form of exercise last weekend. Swimming. My Phil (as opposed to Our Phil, who may swim, but I think he mostly jogs while drinking a nice Shiraz) swims regularly and raves about the physical and stress-relieving benefits of 45 minutes in the pool doing laps. After trying Zumba and experiencing a panic attack (no kidding; story to follow soon) and getting a little too enthusiastic on the elliptical machine (to the point of nearly falling off when Electric Light Orchestra’s “Don’t Bring Me Down” came onto my Shuffle), I was thinking that something safer some other options in my cardio-exercise routine might be worth exploring.

Hint: leave the iPod at home when this is your exercise routine,

Thinking gets me into trouble. Or maybe not thinking things through gets me into trouble. Anywho, I forgot a few fundamental Natural Laws of Lorna:

  1. Looking at water is safe; being in water is asking for trouble because of my swimming disability.
  2. Physical coordination is conceptual not actual.
  3. Bodies in flailing motion tend to sink or fall over.
  4. Prevention matters, but doesn’t work.

Why did I go “swimming?”

  1. To see my Phil in action.
  2. To see how my bathing suit looked on me.
  3. To see if I could get a gentle cardio-workout without having a nervous breakdown.

Okay, so maybe I overestimated my noodle-to-sinkage ratio

What was my experience like in the pool?

  1. I learned to appreciate the technically sophisticated  flotation assistance of the “noodle.”
  2. I learned that most five-year-olds have better mastery of the “noodle” than I have.
  3. I prefer my water filtered not heavily chlorinated, especially when I’m going to drink that much of it.
  4. I learned not to close my eyes when doing the back float. The edge of the pool is significantly harder than the top of my head.
  5. Since I was in the “Old Ladies Who Stand Around and Wave Their Arms and Legs” section of the pool, it didn’t matter that my laps were more like zig-zags. Noodles have a mind of their own.
  6. I looked much better in my bathing suit than any one of those old ladies.

Look at the disgust on their faces. You'd think at least they'd show a little compassion for me after I whacked my head on the side of the pool. But no; they were jealous of my Sexy Speedo shape as I sunk.

Après “Swim” Discovery: I wore regulation water shoes while strutting my stuff walking to and from the pool (which took a major edge off my hotness factor). I stood on a towel while getting dressed. None of this mattered. After showering for real at home and applying lotion, I noticed something on the bottom of my right foot that was heinous…horrifying…revolting….curious. A growth.

I should have known. It's this kind of thing that grows in the water.

My once pure, virginal sole, was assaulted with this, this, this (yes, I used 3 this-es) thing. It was a projectile of skin that wasn’t there the last time I slathered lotion on my tootsies. I did what any self-respecting woman my age would do: I picked at it until it came off. All that was left was the root. But I knew something was afoot with my right foot; she had been deflowered by a, a, a, (yes, I used 3 a’s) plantar wart.

Ignore the socks-flotsam and focus people. This is my once virginal righteous sole. If you think I'm exaggerating, be careful. You may be guilty of Wartism if I get my way.

I’ve never had a wart in my life, certainly not on my foot. I just joined the ranks of between 1.5 and 3.1 million wart-victims in America alone. Oh, the shame and burden I feel along with my fellow Wartsters and the potential Wartism that is just another form of subtle discrimination I don’t need to deal with at this stage in my life. We Wartsters have to suffer the knowledge that we carry the Human papillomavirus, which (in its various forms) can make your V-Jay-Jay, Weinerschnizel, and/or tongue fall off –probably not on the same person, only in extreme cases, and I’m paraphrasing just a little from Wikipedia), but our plight costs a lot of money to treat with sketchy but impressively packaged expensive OTC “remedies,” duct tape and/or major excavation surgery. Aren’t you impressed with the research I’ve done? Wartism isn’t a recognized social problem yet, but I’m going to write to the New York Civil Liberties Union. I bet between 7 to 10% of them have plantar warts and will take my request to have a new protected class of people (Wartsters) recognized.

I’m going to try cryogenics to freeze this alien invader wart out of existence. My foot may no longer be pure and virginal, but she’ll be frigid. That’ll let any lurking virus know to stay away from my feet–the girls are not in the mood for hanky panky.

If the prophylactic booties don't convince you I'm serious, take a good look at my face. I've still got a virginal left foot and she's staying that way.