Corn on the Cob? Nope, On my Toe.

I have a corn on my right foot. It's on the pinky toe. I call it Joan Crawford because it's hard and hurtful just like she was. But it also has a soft side, much like Joan did. Joan's soft side showed up in her yearly Christmas cards. My corn's soft side shows up after I soak it in Epsom salt and hot water. I know what it's from. It's from wearing less than ideal shoes at work and cramming my wide ass foot into a narrow ass shoe and then standing for eight hours at a time. I saw it coming yet I did nothing about it. It's an old friend, this corn. Corns are like herpes. Once you get one, it never really goes away. It gets worse and then it gets better, but it's always there. Sure you can buy some corn pads and some Dr. Scholl's but maybe the only real way to get it taken care of is to either go to a podiatrist or start wearing flip flops twenty-four hours a day. In my latest dealings with my corn, I have opted for medicated pads. I don't know what the hell is on these pads. I tried to read the package once, but quite honestly, the print was too small. Between the long words and me being too lazy to go get my reading glasses which were all the way in the bedroom, I have no idea what it is I am smearing on my toe every forty-eight hours. But it seems to be working.

Corns are a hazard of the job. We servers are on our feet for hours at a time, much like a Wal-Mart greeter. I can only assume that those Wal-Mart greeters have corns all over their feet but then again most of the greeters are old so their feet are past their prime anyway. Since they work at Wal-Mart though, they can just hop, skip and limp over to aisle seven and get all the help they need. Wal-Mart has insoles, extra cushioned socks, corn pads, medicine and they even have a do-it-yourself appendage amputation kit. If the corn is really bad they can just cut the foot off and then go over to aisle two and buy a new foot using their 25% off employee discount card. We don't have that in the restaurant business. We are forced to pay full price for our corn remedies or you can do some poor white trash option like fold up a bev nap and stick it between your toes. Don't laugh. I've done it. One time at work, my cuticles were ripping every time I reached into my pocket to make change. After about ten times and the first appearance of blood, I put a piece of Scotch tape over my finger and it saved my life. Necessity is the mother of invention, they say. Or poverty is the reason I use Scotch tape and bev naps for Band-Aids. (FYI, in the winter when your hands are dry, a pat of butter from the bread station does wonders.)

Why am I writing about corns? It's because it is another thing that we servers deal with. Bad tips, snotty attitudes, messy babies, asshole managers, long hours, no benefits, slimy ice machines, sticky sugar caddies, dirty ketchup bottles, wobbly tables, incompetent co-workers, and corns. Corns. In the words of Carol Channing overheard from a stall in the bathroom, "When did I have corn?"

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