I put the P.D. in podiatry.

Good news! Thanks to my stand-up workstation and plenty of walking, my bad back is feeling better and you don’t have to read about it this month. Bad news! Thanks to my stand-up workstation and plenty of walking, I now have plantar fasciitis.

Wait, where are you going? This will be fun, I promise!

Plantar fasciitis doesn’t sound like what it is. When I first heard the term, in reference to a professional athlete, I thought, “He should have used a condom.” But once I found out it wasn’t a sexually transmitted disease, I thought at the very least that it sounded fatal. It turns out that it’s only heel pain.

“Good afternoon Mr. Achilles, I’m Dr. HELLO!!! Eh hem. I’m only a podiatrist, sir, no need to remove more than your socks. And I gotta tell you, I’m pretty sure what you have is NOT plantar fasciitis. In fact, I’m going to recommend you see a specialist about that arm.”

I know I promised not to talk about my back, but that was three paragraphs ago, so I’m hoping you forgot. It was back pain that first prompted me to visit a podiatrist last year, and not because I thought a podiatrist was a back doctor. (I thought a podiatrist was the guy at the Genius Bar who fixes mp3 players.) But once I found out podiatrist was a foot doctor, I decided to see if my tendency to walk on the outsides of my feet might be creating unnecessary pressure on my spine.

“This is a supination,” my podiatrist said.

“I love America too, doc … but what about my feet?”

She informed me that it was possible there was additional pressure, but that my feet were in great shape [“foot-shaped”, I guess] and she wouldn’t subject me to the expense of custom orthotics. I realize this is sounding obsessive, but orthotics also sounded like an STD, and I was glad not to have them! Plus, I was glad she was honest and didn’t immediately try to overcharge me.

But close to a year later, I found myself standing about 10 hours a day and walking another one or two. I started to have some soreness in my foot, and thought I might be overdoing it. When I woke up the next day, it started to hurt a little more. The following morning, when I hobbled downstairs in so much pain that one of my kids yelled, “Oppa Gangnam Style!” I knew I needed to see the doctor.

My wife wasn’t convinced. Since my health insurance policy doesn’t cover, you know, health issues, she thought I should research home treatment. She didn’t want me to pay out of pocket for what I could learn on my own, especially since I was wearing pants with no pockets.

I work from home.

I walked to my computer (i.e., limped dramatically to my computer for her benefit), went online and clicked on the WebMD® Genital-Free^TM Crash-Test Dummy^SM to determine that I did indeed have plantar fasciitis.

“Mr. Achilles, the arm is looking much better! Oh, sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

My wife still didn’t want me to go to the doctor. I told her I would not make the appointment if she would do her hair and deliver the diagnosis in high heels and a white lab coat.

So off to the doctor I went!

It was my left foot that was giving me the problem. But on the drive over, my right foot contracted a severe case of plantyour footdownhardis. I got a $240 ticket for speeding after my wife had just told me not to waste money unnecessarily. Instead of the regular sound, the police siren went WONK WONK WOOONNNNK.[1] My pleas to the trooper fell on deaf ears.

Wait a minute. Do you even HAVE ears?

“But officer! My foot is ossified!”

The sad part is that the doctor’s office is so close to my house that I would have walked if I didn’t have plantar fuckingitis!

So instead of contemplating questions about my heel heal in the waiting room, I was feeling like a heel over my ticket.

When the DPM (Doctor of Podiatric Medicine) arrived, I explained that my high blood pressure was because I met the MPD (Motherfucking Police Department) on the way over. Her examination revealed that the WebMD dummy’s diagnosis was probably correct. To be sure, she recommended x-rays. Her assistant gave me paper slippers. For a guy with size 12 feet, they were like McDonald’s hash brown bags. I’m assuming they were for sanitary reasons, but since they only fit halfway over my feet, I wondered how sanitary it would be if I slipped on the tile floor and spilled blood all over the nice, clean hallway.

But I remained upright as the assistant supplied the complimentary bulletproof vest. The room was tight, so I had to kick the slippers off – about as gracefully as one removes a scorpion from their toe – and step up onto a metal x-ray stand.

The doctor returned with a tablet – not the kind you swallow for pain, which would come later – but a mobile device to pull up my x-ray results.

“Sorry this is taking so long to load,” she said.

“Your results will be up in a moment.”

“You know what they say about big feet, right? Big x-ray image buffer,” I thought. But I didn’t say it, because I figured having to look at people’s feet all day made this woman’s job creepy enough. I opted for, “Must be taking a while to process all the lead.”

This time, the doctor recommended I get the orthotics. It turns out orthotics are custom-fitted shoe inserts, which is the opposite of STDs. More like birth control. Who wants to have sex with somebody that has custom-fitted shoe inserts? “Hey, baby. Let me slip into something a little more comfortable….” Go ahead; say “orthotics” in your sexiest whisper.

The doctor also suggested I stop wearing Nike sneakers, which she didn’t think were the best option for people with wide feet. Wait, when did my awesome podiatrist become my mother? You’re not wearing Nike’s just because the other kids have them! Here, put these embarrassing things on your feet! At least my mom didn’t charge me $390 when she was done.

“Yes, Mrs. Zam, I promise you that your child will be the coolest kid in school if you buy these shoes from me.” [WINK]

But I know the doctor only had my best interests in mind, and she delivered her advice with great professionalism. She has an excellent bedside manor. (That’s not a misspelling. Thanks to all the orthotics sales, she lives in a huge manor over in West Bedside.)

It actually looks much nicer now that they’ve finished remodeling the toe.

She gave me good medication and great advice, telling me to slow down with both the walking and the driving.

On the way home, cars were lining up behind me. Kids on skateboards were passing me … uphill. I wanted to shout, “I just don’t want to get another speeding ticket! I’m not an old fogey!” But then I remembered I had just purchased orthotics. I drove quietly home, five miles per hour under the speed limit.