I have important news on two health fronts.

On Monday, I am going to meet my new pedicurist and set up regular pedicures.

On Tuesday, I hope to begin a new kickass workout at the gym. The trainers have noted my leisurely pace on the treadmill and outed me.

I had surgery on my big toe last week and it is healing beautifully. I’ve been hobbling around in a boot.

The problem – my very foolish bad – was a callus and my bunged treatment of it.

For a long time, I saw an orthopedic surgeon regularly – every few months –  to take care of my calluses and feet. I am a diabetic and doctors take foot care seriously when they are seeing diabetics.

Infections can cause amputation of toes, even feet. My diabetes is under strict control and there are no signs of neuropathy. Foot injures heal quickly and well, there is a strong pulse in my feet and lots of feeling.

But it’s important to be careful, and mindful of foot injuries. I sometimes get overconfident.

I’m also having trouble, as many older people do, with foot care and nail trimming. It’s not easy for me to bend over and see my feet in the ways I once could. And this isn’t something I’m comfortable asking Maria to do, although she is quite willing.

The result is that I cut my toes too often.

The surgeon moved away and I foolishly took over my own foot care. One night, trying to trim the callus before bedtime in the dark, I cut the big toe. For various reasons – all of them reflecting on my stupidity – it wasn’t healing well, the callus kept the wound from healing.

The problem wasn’t diabetes but the callus that trapped the wound and cause an ulceration. That can easily lead to an infection. Then it is a diabetic issue.

I screwed around with this would for a couple of months. I had a lot of medical stuff going on.

It didn’t hurt and seemed to be getting better. But toe wounds heal from the inside out, and it just wasn’t healing.

I finally went to see Dr. Cary, a pediatric surgeon, and she took charge immediately and cleaned up the wound – which was now slightly infected by bacteria, according to a skin culture.

She put me in a boot, and told me to take some antibiotics and keep the wound dry and the foot out of a shoe. She strongly suggested I not try to play doctor again.

The wound, freed from my callus has healed very quickly, I see the doctor again on Monday when I expect to get the boot removed.  And also some new orthotics.

I’m sure she will put me on a regular schedule to come and see her.   I’m very open to that, even relieved.

And here is the strange news for me. I’ve found a pedicurist in Saratoga and I’m going to see her Monday. I never thought I would be seeing a pedicurist, but then, I never thought I’d be having sex again either, or chatting with Amish neighbors.

I’ve offered to buy Maria a pedicure – she is somewhat horrified by the idea – to come with me for the first time. I might need some shoring up.

I have to admit that getting a pedicure with Maria seems like a lot of fun. A pedicure makes sense for me. And for my feet.

I’m trying to learn humility as well as authenticity, and that means being pro-active, rather than re-activitate.

I can’t any longer wait for problems to reveal themselves. That almost killed me several times.

I’ve connected with a first-rate medical system, the one operating around Saratoga Springs Hospital, and I see several doctors regularly, mostly every three or six months.

My new idea is to keep up with things to spot trouble and avoid it. I’ve done some remarkable work on my heart, prostate, my diabetes, and now, my feet. In most ways, I am healthier than I’ve been in some years.

And sleeping more, and exercising daily. But it’s never enough, is it?

On another front, the trainer and manager of my gym have outed me. Laura said that once the boot is off of my foot, I’m getting a new workout.

I was quite proud of myself for doing 45 minutes on the bike and treadmill. Not so fast.

“I’ve seen you on the bike and the treadmill,” she said. “You ride like my aunt Edna, and she’s 85. We’re going to double that speed on the bike and the treadmill. Fifteen minutes on each. Then some upper body weight work for another half hour. Give that heart something to think about.”

In other words, my workout will be twice as long and twice as hard. The trainer noticed me quietly and happily listening to audiobooks and music at very low speeds. The party is over.

They were right. My heart needs a better workout than that. I’m game. And I’m even ready.

I see growing older as a creative opportunity, not a tragedy.

Over 50, something hurts all the time. But I learn something every day.

I am learning that my body responds well to exercise, my father would have been happy. Finally, his bookish sissy of a son is exercising and taking care of his body.

Okay, Dad, you had a point. I wasn’t about to give in to you, but I can give into me. May we both rest in peace.

And I want to stick around a while to hang out with Maria and Zinnia and the donkeys and dogs and new lamb.