One Awkward Overshare

Milestone! This is my 100th Post. It also might be my most disgusting? Hey, remember when I had that wart on my foot and everyone was grossed out except that one guy who was all “Baby, I don’t care what’s growing on your foot so long as you cover it with one of your three pairs of boots: the black ones, the brown suede or the snow boots.” Well! After literally years of visiting several doctors and trying nearly every non-surgical remedy on the planet, the wart still wouldn’t go away. So I decided to go under the knife. On Friday morning I went into the podiatrist for what was supposed to be a minor procedure but ended up losing the whole leg, from the knee down. I’ll be getting a wooden leg, just like Paul McCartney’s ex-wife. Coincidentally, I, too will be performing on Dancing with the Stars, hopefully I fare better than she did!

Aww, sorry! That was mean.

Ok, ok, that wooden leg stuff was a mild exaggeration. I still have both legs but one of my feet has like, a scoop cut out of the bottom and I can’t wear cute shoes for like, weeks. Mildly painful but mostly it’s just embarrassing having people ask me why I’m limping and having to tell them I had groady wart surgery. I blame society - some ailments, though totally legit, are considered ick. Warts, rashes, boils, really anything skin related. I’m to pretty to have ANY of those! I’m am so ashamed of my gross podiatry problems and yet I can’t stop telling everyone.


I have a problem. Due to some crazy mix of insecurity and self absorption, I always assume people spend A LOT of time thinking about everything I say and do and the best way to keep people from thinking I am a weirdo is just to overshare every single unwanted detail until they know fo sho that I am a weirdo.

For example.  A recent conversation at a bar between me and a friend:

Friend: “I am just about to start Season 4 of Breaking Bad!” Me: “Oh! I plan to catch up next weekend.” Friend: “Neat!” My Brain: “It is neat! Wait...I wonder what she meant by that? I mean, I definitely always stay in weekends watching TV but what if she thinks it is lame that I have a whole weekend plan just to watch DVD’s! I bet she’s curious why I’m planning it for next weekend instead of this one coming up. It’s already Thursday! Does she think I’m blowing her off? She can tell I’m hiding something from her! Oh god our friendship will never survive this!” Me: “Because of my wart! I’ll be watching Breaking Bad because of my wart! Well, not because of the wart, really but the wart surgery. You knew I had a wart, right? Did you know? I blogged about it. ANYWAY it is SO gross, it has been on my foot for years and WILL NOT go away, I’ve tried everything but it keeps onnn growin’ so my doctor’s gonna cut it right out! Just slice a hole in my foot. I won’t be able to walk. That’s why I’ll be inside, watching Breaking Bad. You know, since you were curious.” Friend: “Um...I think I need another drink..." (Slowly backs away, a look of terror in her eyes)

Just shut it down, Liz.

I had this same neurotic conversation times about 9 million at my office, a place where truly no one wants to hear about my medical issues. Friends can live with it, but does our mail guy need to know that the reason I won’t be signing for packages on Friday is because I’m having wart surgery? No. Did I tell him? Of course I did! Did I send my boss an e-mail reading:

“Hi! I need to take off on Friday, March 9  (personal day, not vacation) (just for a doctor’s appt) (nothing scandalous!!)”

and then a few days later follow that up with an in-person announcement about what, exactly, I was having done, lest she think I was actually doing something scandalous even though I made it pretty clear from the third parenthetical aside that it was NOT scandalous? You know it! Every single person in the office who so much as looked at me the week leading up to my surgery got the full story, and then some. I had no other choice!

What was I supposed to do? Just casually say “I’ll be out of the office on Friday, see you next week!” and then leave and everyone would just stop thinking about me and go back to business as usual? Um, yeah right. The world is obsessed with me. They need to know what I am up to!

I could say I was going on vacation. But WHERE would I say I was going? What if someone looked at my twitter and saw that I was not at all on vacation but instead was in my house live-tweeting a Boy Meets World marathon?

I could say I was taking off for a doctor’s appointment. It is true! But what would people think I needed taking off a WHOLE day for one apt? Only two possibilities: brain-cancer MRI or abortion. I don’t want anyone to panic and think I’ve come down with a terminal illness. And who are they to judge me for maybe or maybe not having an abortion?!! My body, my choice! Don't tell me what to do! But despite my left-wing-bound-for-eternal-damnation-up-with-Womyn opinions on the rights of a lady and her uterus, I don't really think it is appropriate to have such politically charged conversations in the workplace. (But apparently I think it is A-OK to discuss grotesque medical ailments?)

I could have said I took off for a number of appointments - doctor, dentist, hair cut, acupuncturist - but I just got my hair cut! And that’s just too many crazy details to keep straight. Everyone would obviously remember that I said I was going to the dentist, so then in a few weeks when I leave early to actually go to the dentist I would either have to lie again OR make everyone think that I’m at the dentist like, weekly and ew, Liz must have such disgusting oral hygiene, why’s she all up in that dentist all the time?

And on, and on, and on until the only clear option is to just cut everyone off from any assumptions they may have about my oh-so-important life by blurting out intimate details about the skin virus currently eating through my left foot.

And what will I say today? Now that I am limping? (I'm also wearing giant white sneakers with nude pantyhose - I'm one crimping iron away from a full-on remake of Working Girl over here.) That I sprained my ankle? BUT HOW? Maybe I'll just say I cut my foot. "On what?" people will ask. "ON A SCALPEL DURING WART SURGERY!!!" I will scream, unable to control myself.

It is exhausting being me.

Oh, and in case you’re curious, I DO have photos of my post-op foot! I’m thinking of starting a tumblr, maybe like Warts Are the Original Hipsters where I’ll photoshop my wart wearing ironic mustaches and plaid and stuff, or Tuesdays With Wartie! Once a week she’ll dispense sage life advice and remind us all what really matters. Or something with cats! Or Ryan Gosling???

Shut it down, Liz. Shut. It. Down.