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I have, I confess, the feet of an athlete. Not the kind that win the 100 meters in 9.98 seconds, or even the kind that limp wretchedly round the oval to claim a participant's pin in the "Race for the Cure to Having Your Ankles Banged At With A Ball-Peen Hammer" 24 hour relay. No, I have athlete's feet. I mean foot. Athlete's foot.

I don't know, since I'm not very athletic, where I got such a thing. I'm at the gym four mornings a week, but I keep well away from the obvious lepers, and keep the liver-spotted elderly at bay with occasional light spritzes of cleaning fluid as needed. And most importantly, my feet remain inside my shoes at all times. So even IF I was tackled and subjected to frottage by some gamey pariah, which I'm pretty sure has never happened, my feet would have to be pried out of their protective shells first, shoes AND socks, before any fung would have a chance to get ungus on me. Right?

Four weeks of twice-daily cream rubs is NOT sitting well with me.

On a side note, this is definitely the sort of confession I never would have made before getting married, in fear of hurting my chances with the opposite sex. Not that I don't care now, but, yeah wait, I don't care now. This, plus the computer geek thing and the LIBRARIAN'S DEGREE has guaranteed my place somewhere just behind Giblet, the Radioactive Plague Clown, on the scale of Brad Pitt to Elephant Man in the All Hot Male Revue.

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