Albo P Fossa—April 15, 2020
“We’re all in this together,” ads and pols say. But we’re all in this apart—at least six feet.
Feet? I’m off to Wikipedia. A foot meant the length of a (man’s) foot, “a unit of measure used widely and anciently.” (I didn’t know “anciently” was a word.) The standard varies.
A study found my foot length should be about ten and a third inches, give or take near a half inch. Right: take. It’s shorter than a twelve-inch foot ruler.
A foot (mine, anyway) has the luxury of no frequent twenty-second scrubbings these days. I keep my foot fully clothed when I go out for a walk or during rare grocery outings. And it never touches my face—I’m no yoga master.
On the other hand, a foot has the unique ability—or bears the unique onus—of getting a corn. My right foot has one on its pinkie. A foot is sometimes stoopid enough to stub its toe during half-awake night walks to the little room.
Poor foot: I’m walkin’ the floor over you.
Now take a hand. Four inches is called a “hand”. That’s supposed to be, on a fully outflexed hand, the distance between the tip of the pinkie and the tip of the thumb. So a hand’s shy of a foot by a long shot. (My hand’s about two hands wide: the shot’s not quite as long.)
But did you ever try to write, or take the lid off a jar of pickles, with a foot? A foot can’t come to grips with a jar lid, and writing’s footloose. A thumb’s handy for TouchID on a smartphone, too. My big toe’s no thumb by a long shot. Give it a hand.
I look forward to the days when we can wash our hands of all this.
Until then, best foot forward.