I actually don’t know the last time I looked at my feet. They must be hideous. Men are known for many great things, one of which is their capacity to not care about hygiene. To be fair, insofar as men are related to monkeys, they should be expected to adhere to some sort of social grooming, but pedicures are a scratch and sniff too far.
One of the prevailing characteristics of modernity is its attempt to replace the stinky boy with the androgynous metrosexual—who, unhindered by fungal feet, can successfully add another notch to his/her lipstick case. But I’d rather just be a man.
Although he failed to mention feet in Gone with the Wind, Clark Gable’s words echo my sentiment on this topic—“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” But I do give one against the idea that men should succumb to feminine beauty standards. One might protest that women have always been unjustly forced to adhere to male expectations of beauty. Yeah, both are weird, no doubt about it.
But a certain amount of outrage would arise from campus (myself included) if a male student recommended that women should make sure to keep their upper lip hairless—especially if it was connected to her chances of needing “birth control” or not.
Luckily, my feet are grotesque, not to mention the fungus, so I assume I won’t be asking a woman to take “the pill” or an “IUD” anytime soon—or at any point for that matter—because, in my estimation, contraception is infinitely more vile than the most putrid of feet.
To the excellent writer of last week’s article, I believe we can agree on the most important problem of our times: bare feet in AJ’s. That is a detestable practice, no matter how clean the feet—this is a public building, and I’m trying to eat.