Pinky Toe Appreciation

I rarely think about my pinky toes. However, I bet that if you were to stab one of them, or yank it out, or run a dresser into it, or paint it some horrendous color, or wrap aluminum foil around it, I would be like, "Dammit. How I wish I could have my pinky toe restored to its normal state."

But why must it be so? Why must I take for granted something that is intrinsic to me, only acknowledging its existence when its state is unfavorably altered? Sure, the pinky toes do not serve a function that is as obvious or pronounced as, say, the clitoris -- but they do help to keep me grounded, and I sometimes use them to scratch my legs when I am too lazy to bend down and scratch or put lotion on them with my hands. Irrespective of the foregoing utilitarian considerations, the mere fact that vandalism/injury to or removal of my pinky toes would unsettle me so should serve as impetus to appreciate them in their day-to-day existence.

Some would ascribe this blase attitude toward pinky toes to "human nature," where we are resigned to undervaluing the familiar, being too enraptured in the pursuit of novelty. But perhaps it is a mistake to conflate "human nature" with the nature of being selected out of existence due to building new fancy things that destroy our planet, fucking our way into sexually transmitted epidemics, and waging wars in the name of new freedoms, only to then say "dammit" in wistful remembrance of the conditions before we acted upon our greed. And perhaps there is some middle ground to be found, where pleasure, innovation, and the common good can coexist. For now, I choose to marvel at my pinky toes, and delight in the fact that they are safe and sound in my caring possession.