A couple of weeks ago, while spending time with my children and grandchildren, two of my youngest granddaughters decided that my toenails needed painting.

The artists were MJ, age three, and Olive, age four. Their one-year-old brother, Jamie, looked on, apparently taking mental notes for the day when he, too, might be invited to decorate Gramps.

I am not sure how the idea came about. But, what I do know is that once MJ and Olive had the idea, there was apparently no stopping them.

So, I did what Gramps sometimes does.

I surrendered.

The girls went to work with great enthusiasm and concentration. They clearly had a vision, although I am not sure they shared the same one.

On my right foot, the big toe and three other toes are red. Only the second toe is purple.

The left foot is even more adventurous. The big toe and the two little toes are red. The second and middle toes are purple.

There is no obvious pattern.

There may be some deeper artistic meaning, but it has not yet been explained to me.

MJ and Olive were delighted.

I was less certain.

Now, I want to make one thing clear. I was happy to let them do it. They were having fun. They were laughing. They were focused on their work. Jamie was watching. And they seemed genuinely pleased that Gramps was willing to serve as their canvas.

In that moment, their happiness was more important than my toenails.

The problem is that the moment ended.

The toenail polish did not.

For the past couple of weeks, every time I take off my socks, there they are: red and purple toes staring back at me.

They do not fit my self-image.

They do not fit my wardrobe.

They certainly do not fit my brand.

I have spent more than 80 years creating a reasonably clear picture of who I am. I am a father, grandfather, public servant, social entrepreneur, foundation founder, traveler, writer, pickleball player, dancer and occasional adventurer.

Nowhere in that description have I ever included “man with red and purple toenails.”

As a result, I have found myself wearing socks more often.

Not because my feet are cold.

Because I am hiding the evidence.

I have also been thinking that I should go to a nail salon and have the polish removed. That seems like the obvious solution.

But that has created a second problem.

I do not see myself as someone who goes into a nail salon.

I know this is ridiculous. Men go to nail salons. Men get pedicures. There is nothing unusual or wrong about it.

Still, I picture myself walking through the door and attempting to explain the situation.

“Can I help you?” someone will ask.

“Yes,” I will say. “I need you to remove the red polish from most of my toes, the purple polish from the second toe on my right foot, and the purple polish from the middle two toes on my left foot.”

“Would you like a pedicure?”

“No. I am not here for a pedicure. I am here for evidence removal.”

I briefly considered removing it myself.

Alexis and others have informed me that this is not likely to be easy. Whatever MJ and Olive put on my toes is thick. Extremely thick. It appears to have been applied with the expectation that it should last through weather, warfare and possibly the next presidential administration.

Ordinary nail polish remover, I am told, may not be up to the job.

Professional intervention may be required.

Of course, the truth is that nobody at the nail salon would care. They have undoubtedly seen stranger things than an 82-year-old Gramps with multicolored toenails.

I am the only one making this complicated.

So, for now, I continue to wear socks.

Every once in a while, I take them off and am startled all over again by the sight of my feet. Then I remember MJ and Olive crouched over my toes, completely absorbed in their artistic work, while Jamie watched from nearby.

It is a wonderful memory.

But I also want the red and purple polish removed.

Big time.

Unfortunately, that apparently requires me to walk into a nail salon, sit down, take off my socks and explain how my feet came to look this way.

I cringe at the thought.

So, here I am.

I love what the toes remind me of.

Yet I cannot wait to get rid of the colors.

And I cannot quite bring myself to enter the place where that can be accomplished.

Which is why, several weeks later, the artwork remains—and Gramps is still wearing socks.