My Lyft driver, a retired gentleman I guessed to be about 60, backed into my driveway, where I awaited with luggage for a trip to Spokane. He was prompt, courteous and, judging from the ease in which he hoisted my bags into his trunk, of able strength.
He was also barefoot.
“All set?” he asked, sliding into the driver’s seat of his Kia.
“Uh, I guess,” I mumbled, never taking my eyes off his arches, phalanges, metatarsals and all other components that, together, comprise one of my least favorite body parts.
Yes, I hate feet. And I know I’m not alone. Granted, they provide skills I truly enjoy (the ability to stand upright and forward mobility come to mind). But I don’t even like to stare at my own feet, much less someone else’s, even for a 30-minute ride to Chicago’s Midway Airport.
I tried to rectify the situation immediately.
“You know, I think it’s illegal to drive barefoot,” I said, seeming to remember a discussion about that very topic in my high school driver’s education class 40 years ago.
“Meh, I’m European,” he said, throwing the car into drive, as I pondered his answer. I’ve been to over a dozen European countries but never encountered a collection of natives walking around shoeless. Topless, yes. Shoeless, no.
Glancing at my watch and realizing I didn’t have time to abandon the vehicle for another ride, I Googled “Is it illegal to drive barefoot?”
It isn’t. All 50 states allow one to operate a moving vehicle in the same manner as Fred Flintstone. I tried another tactic, tweeting, “@Lyft. My driver is barefoot!”
The ever-vigilant ride-sharing service responded within seconds: “If you ever feel unsafe, you can be connected with our Critical Response Line by clicking the ‘Call Me’ button.”
I don’t feel unsafe, just grossed out. I clip my own toenails as quickly as possible; the less time to stare at calluses, fungus and Lord only knows what else has decided to encamp below my ankles. I will, occasionally, rub lotion on my wife’s feet as she falls asleep but usually with my back to her, and my eyes on the bedroom television. I’ve watched entire reruns of Modern Family and Seinfeld this way.
“I don’t think anybody likes feet,” my 21-year-old daughter said when I recounted the ride sharing incident to her. I’d be inclined to agree, were it not for a discussion I had about feet with some friends recently at a neighborhood watering hole. After a few beers, one confessed to occasionally visiting foot fetish websites.
“Dude. Why?” two of us asked simultaneously.
He shrugged, realizing he already had revealed too much personal information.
I wanted to ask the same question to the podiatrist currently treating me for a painful bone spur near my Achilles tendon that has limited my athletic pursuits for over a year. In his waiting room, I stared at posters and brochures warning of foot maladies, all with equally disgusting names: Gout! Corns! Warts! Bunions! I felt as if a foot condition carnival barker just wandered into the office, hawking ailments.
I wanted to ask my doctor what attracted him to feet, but I felt he may have interpreted the question as if I was accusing him of being a lesser medical practitioner than someone who treats, say, the heart or brain. So, I remained silent. I also kept my questions in check the one time I visited a specialist for hemorrhoids.
It’s not that I walk through life wearing shoes at every waking moment. One of life’s great pleasures is, in my opinion, feeling the ocean sand in between toes as one sits on a beach chair, holding a daiquiri and wishing the day would never end.
As long as one doesn’t snap photos of those toes and post them on social media.
So, before you spend any of summer’s remaining days venturing out in public barefoot, be it for pleasure or work, if you drive for Lyft, remember one thing: You are making a large segment of the population squeamish. Please, at the very least, wear some sandals until you are alone.
Or move to Europe.
