I got a big (toe) problem.

I heard about “ashtanga toe” when I was a green, still-dipping-my-toes-in-the-water-ashtanga-kid who knew not the great fortune that landed her a few blocks away from the venerable Yoga Workshop in Boulder. I was pregnant or with baby during these two years, so I was the world’s best worst student, sometimes showing up two days in a row, only to disappear for a month. Those were the days. Still, there was a mystique to the place, an oasis of breath where I found encouragement and care from teachers like Mary Taylor who kept me returning especially as my baby neared one year. And in those early days, when I practiced at best a handful of days a week, with a cheat sheet as my main prop, and looked at people in supta vadrasana as cheaters because that crazy stuff certainly was not part of primary series, I read of “toe trouble” and thought:

I want that.

Well, not exactly; it didn’t sound quite as desirable as “yoga ass” — but it sounded cool enough to wonder about. I was in the throes of infatuation with ashtanga, those early moments when you don’t even know the person you like, he’s just the interesting figure to whom you attach mythical, God-like, every-little-thing-she-does-is-magic-qualities. Like any 14-year-old girl with a crush, I crushed on all my crush was into—but instead of developing a sudden interest in stupid awful bands, I grew curious about toe afflictions. Of course, with my most consistent practice being seventh series (aka, new mom’hood), I never needed “toe tape” (or what the YW called “the ultimate ashtanga fashion statement.”)

Fast forward four years: I asphyxiate my toes with tape. Yoga should come with a warning: Be careful what you wish for. Because you practice and “all” most certainly is coming—and “all” of it, from postures to self-awareness to bleeding big toes — may f%#ing “ruin your life.”  Turns out this fantasy falls very, very, very far from the reality. Ain’t nothing sexy about my toes, each swaddled in its own Kundalini turban of white, waterproof tape.

It went like this: First, I developed thick calluses on these toes, which at least one ashtangi encouraged me to keep. Then those calluses split down to the quick let’s say, back in November. Since then, I’ve been caught in a repetitive cycle of split skin, tape (and the tape never stays, no matter what), heal a little, tape again, wake up in the middle of the night ’cause it kind of hurts, tape again, rip tape off via repeated upward dogs, drip blood on my yoga towel, tape again, heal a little again…….

I just want toes well enough for a pedicure.

The YW site says toe taping “does the trick,” — perhaps all my stubborn (and I got lots) is embodied here in these toes, ’cause I don’t care how you tie ’em up —they break free. In the mysore room I’ve become known for shedding tape, which finds its demise on the outskirts of my mat, strewn like first aid carnage, or it makes its way onto the bottoms of my teacher’s feet, only to be stomped to death —oh the innocent, sweet, waterproof victims of my stubborn toe follies.

From the mysore room and the larger online world of ashtanga, I got advice:

“duct tape?”

“Castor Oil that sh!t”

“Superglue.”

“Wear shoes and socks”  

I followed none but the latter, from the lovely Miss Zoe Ward, and with little progress. Then I arrived to teach a vinyasa class with my gleaming white, freshly taped feet, and a newbie looked down and said,

“what happened to your toes?”

I hesitated. I’m pretty sure that when I answer this query with “ashtanga” people’s eyes drift to that place of thinking, oh, ashtanga, that must be some weird yoga cult where they perform satanic rituals involving toe stigmata. Finally, I eloquently responded:

“uhhhhhhhh……..”  

So, uhh……There comes a time in a yogi’s life, when after near-drowning in essential oils, crystals, and genuine organic tumeric, along with prayers to the universe, shamanic healers and moon phases for healing, you fall on your knees and beg for an IV teeming with take-no-prisoners antibiotics, generic Advil, and whiskey. Such was my state —my bath drain clogged with sesame oil, my face awash in jojoba, my existence reduced to a walking Omega Three Fatty acid sporting cushy socks and boots— the day I surrendered to dry mountain air, ashtanga’s very many vinyasas, and my stubborn big toes . . .

And bought Liquid Bandage, aka “New Skin.”

 

If there was an aisle dedicated to the most unnatural products at the store, this product might define it (along with hot pockets) [note, you must click on that link to Jim Gaffigan]. The stuff smells like a combination of nail polish, nail polish remover, turpentine, arsenic and an oil spill, though the nail polish smell dominates. And with this miraculous kryptonite, I lacquered the skin of my toes back together (I think).

Here’s hoping that of my 99 problems—

my big toes ain’t one.