In my twenties I allowed a podiatrist to remove the hard skin on my feet as I
knelt on a chair in front of him facing the wall. He used my bottom as a
headrest for his forehead and grunted as he grappled with my heels. I
assumed that was the standard way to treat feet until I returned to my
office and complained to the women I worked with that I had sore knees, and
told them why. They laughed. I was puzzled. It took two of them to do an
exaggerated role-play of an appropriate chiropodist/patient encounter before
I finally got it: I was a twit. It sounds feeble but the podiatrist was
holding a sharp blade and wearing a white coat so I assumed he was
trustworthy.
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