As legend has it, every February a little groundhog named Punxsutawney Phil peeks his little furry head out of his hole and determines if spring is coming early or if we get another 6 weeks of winter.

Now I don’t exactly recall HOW he tells this. It’s to do with his shadow. But I can never keep straight if the appearance of his shadow means early spring or more winter.  In any case, it doesn’t matter. Because that little rodent is almost always WRONG!

Know what’s not wrong? My toes. More specifically, my shaved toes.

Uh-huh. You read that right. The first day after a long winter that my furry toes feel the need to emerge from the deep recesses of my close-toed shoes and I shave them to make them presentable to the world is the true harbinger that spring is just around the corner.  And I’ll tell you why…(after I explain how I am half-Italian and, yes, have a few dark sproutlings here and there which I cannot help and if you’re of the tow-headed ilk thus rendering your body hair practically invisible, well, la-dee-dah and goodie for you!) 

Anyway… I am a very sensitive creature, highly in tune to my surroundings. Randy the perfekt husband calls me a “delicate flower” (not necessarily in the loving way that the selection of words might imply – but that’s for another post about sarcasm in marriage and how to blow it off).

I have mentioned before on this very website how I am able to detect the slightest shift of the sun and the most subtle changes in sound quality that signal the onset of Fall. Even while other people are still in their bikinis and board shorts, I’m getting out the sweaters and Uggs. And I’m always right.

Well, these talents are evident even as winter turns to spring, but in a slightly different way. Because a day comes where something deep within me stirs. Actually the feeling comes from deep within my fleece-lined shoes. The ones that, along with thick wool socks, have covered my feet daily throughout the winter months. The stirring is a longing- a longing from my toes to be freed from enclosure, from a dormancy and darkness that are akin to hibernation. And so, I step into the shower. And after I shave my armpits and legs, I move, for the first time in months, to my toes.

Now, as I have no built-in bench in my shower nor the ability to lean against one wall while propping my leg up against the other wall because the shower is too big –  this is no small feat (no pun intended). But I do it. Because, good grooming is essential and my feet say it’s time. Time to break out the sandals, to slip on the flip flops, to let my toes hang out baby!

And so I run my Lady Bic across the tops of my toes and deftly remove the two or three barely noticable (except to me and that woman I can’t understand at the the nail place) hairs from the tops of my big toes. And my toes are ready to announce to the world that spring is here! Well, if they could talk they would. (Actually, if they could talk they’d probably bitch about how disgusting the ground is – but they can’t have it all, can they? Freedom AND hygiene both. No siree.)

My point is… My toes have NEVER BEEN WRONG. Once I begin the shaving, I don’t stop again until fall when nature’s cycle begins yet again.

It’s lovely actually, when you think of it. Nature’s little toe cycle. So pure. So real. Sheryl Crow should write a song about it. I mean, I’d fork over the 99 cents to download it off iTunes.

FYI. For you Southern Californians, spring is here as of three days ago. For those of you still buried beneath of blanket of snow, hang in there, according to my toes, spring is just around the corner. You’re welcome.