Ken wrote this story when he thought of Picasso and the funny part in 'Even Cowgirls Get the Blues' by Tom Robbins where a plastic surgeon gave someone a Picasso nose so that he looked as if he was walking towards you from every direction. The story is about putting your foot in & having fun , says the author.

Herman twisted and flushed the toilet, grunting, “Who ever designed this must have been a contortionist. Bad enough when the flush handle was on the wrong side, sticking it on top, dead center, is sadistic.” He bent over, grabbing his pants with his left hand and the elastic band of his underwear with his right. Struggling to get his right foot in through the opening, he continued to rant, “Getting old sucks. Didn’t need to move my feet apart for extra traction when I was young. Bitch stepping into my pants now. It’s easier in the morning when I can sit on my bed.”

He dropped his pants and reached out to the wall to steady himself. Black underwear, dark pants, that was a mistake, can’t see shit! He pointed his toe. “In you go,” staring as first the toes and then the ankle passed the elastic band. It looked as if the foot was turning around; his right foot becoming another left foot, pointing the wrong way. He squinted, trying to pull his foot back. It wouldn’t come. Down it went until it stopped with a “thunk” on his pants which were now spread out on the tile floor in front of the toilet. His right foot was pointing backwards. He tried wiggling the toes; they wiggled back at him.

Herman stood there, unsteadily tottering back and forth, wondering what he should do. “Uh,” was all he could say. He thought for a moment, then deciding it shouldn’t make much difference which way his foot pointed when it emerged from the leg on his pants as long as it was his foot, slammed the toilet seat and sat down on it. He reached down and put his pants on. It was easier than he had thought and when his right foot, now pointing backwards, appeared seconds later, he completed his sentence, “Humm!” He stood up quickly lest he change his mind and decided to investigate further.

As a kid his father was always telling him, “Hermie, you should always try to see the whole picture before you do something stupid.” He hoisted his pants, cinched the belt, and tapped on his right leg.

I ain’t no dummy. Just got to remember if I want to go forward, I need to walk backwards with my right leg. I’ll just keep tapping it as a reminder. Worked when I was learning that Cajun two-step. I’ll look at this in the bedroom mirror, get the big picture just like daddy said.

His bedroom was 10 feet down the hall on the right. Herman started tapping his right leg as soon as he passed the sink. Five minutes later he collapsed on his bed, muttering, “I guess I was lucky, only tripped on my own feet three times. If  I would have known, I could have started practicing months ago: Two feet forward, one step back. Nah, that ain’t right – two steps forward, one foot back. Screw it. Sounds like politics.”

He pushed up on his elbow and glared at his feet. Sure enough, the toes on his left foot were pointing to the ceiling while his right toes were anchored over the edge of the mattress pointing down. He cursed, “They weren’t that way when I woke up. I’d have killed myself walking to the bathroom; I’m still half asleep when I wake up. Yeh, now I remember, it got that way after I put my foot back in my pants after using the crapper. Go figure.”

He closed his eyes. Yeh, go figure, like mom used to say. He sat up on the edge of the bed and stared down at his feet. “One’s still in; one’s still out. Just like Helen and me when we were kids – bellybuttons in and out! Helen was always the smart one. Maybe I’ll call her later.”

And then he had an idea. “I’ll go back to the bathroom, try to poop again, and then when I put my foot through the underwear, maybe it will flip-flop. Sort of like those double negatives Mom was always yelling about.” As usual, Herman didn’t realize he was talking to himself.

He pushed himself to his feet and made his way back to the toilet, tripping when he turned into the bathroom.

He dropped his pants to the floor and, for a minute, didn’t know which way to turn – one foot faced out, the other in. Herman smiled and tapped his head. Back against the WC unless it’s hung up by the ceiling like in the early days. Leaning forward, he placed his right elbow on his right knee. A moment later, he pulled it back in a fright. Something didn’t feel right. He tried the same with his left elbow and knee. Ah, unconsciously I must have seen my right foot pointing the wrong way. This side feels fine.

Herman felt good sitting this way. It made him feel smarter. He had seen a picture of Rodin’s Thinker and liked the fact that the statue showed very little belly fat. He lamented, “But what to do; what to do? What will happen if I put my foot in again? Maybe I’ll end up inside-out with my guts all over the bathroom floor.”

He pulled his left foot out of his pants thinking maybe inserting in his right foot on the left side would reverse the process. But then he worried and cursed, “I bet that will turn my left foot around. Then I’ll have to walk backwards just to go forwards!”

For an instant, he switched elbows and knees. “I bet it works like a toggle switch. I’ll just get up and try to do what I did last time. Hopefully, by the time my right foot hits the floor all will be back as before. That’s got to be it.”

A minute later he decided his pants must be cursed and shoved them under the tub with his left foot. Then, as he was about to stand, slapped himself on the forehead, cursing, “What am I thinking, what am I thinking? It must be the underwear.” He let them drop and stepped out onto the tile floor.

He had a horrible thought and hobbled over to the bathroom sink where he examined his reflection in the mirror, worried that if his underwear was cursed. Maybe it had also inverted his privates around in an equally perverted way. Everything looked good though. He let his fingers explore, monitoring their progress in the mirror. All the parts were there. He was a little wary about left-right stuff; mirror images he always found challenging, like writing H E L P M E on a frosted bus window. Everything seemed about right. Maybe a bit smaller than the last time he checked. Probably because I’m scared.

Herman traced his way back to the bedroom. I’ll call in sick. If they ask, I’ll just tell them I don’t feel myself this morning. Say something about being off, having two left feet. If they only knew!

He undressed, dry-swallowed two aspirin from his nightstand, and crawled under the blankets, hoping that when he got up, everything would be back to normal.