Friday, August 10, 2012
Walk a mile in my pumps (or just a foot or two)....
Ohhhh, my dogs are barking.
They've been barking (loudly and incessantly) for a couple of months.
Over these past several months I've developed a HUGE calf muscle (that sideways looks like really fat turkey drumstick) on one leg.... a result of trying to walk on the side of one foot.
All because of a really shitty, rotten and nastily foul foot aliment called Plantar Faciitis.
Another gift of (menopausal weight gain) middle age.
The saying "feet don't fail me now" had never even crossed my mind as mine had always been very very kind to me.... they were good and sturdy and able to carry me, plus 23.81 #'s (collectively at birth) of babies, an over- the- years steady weight gain all happily supported (usually) by some super cute yet totally un-sensable shoes... mostly heels (and high ones at that).
My feet rocked.
As good as my feet were fundamentally and structurally, they were not ever pretty to look at and have always caused me a fair amount of embarrassment.
Fred Flintstone flat... ruddy colored vienna sausage like toes...
Like putting lipstick on a pig the shiny bright nail polish and neat home-done pedicures were basically a moot point.
A waste of time and money.
Still though, as ugly as they were, they totally had my respect and my undying gratitude for their loyal performance(s).
Lately I want to chop the whole foot off and put an end to my pain.
I hate the mo-fo's....
Since I saw my doctor about my aching foot and the exercises he gave me to try didn't work I've had all kinds of fantasies about asking him for a referral to a foot specialist.
There are lots of em... one peek in the pile of colorful advertisements that come through the mail and in the Sunday paper will find that every other advertisement is for a "foot job" repair all done by a miracle man Doctor of Podiatry.
I was on the elevator the other day, on my way to visit my ailing father.
I entered on the ground floor with the intention of going up to floor number 7.
A man and another woman hopped on board and pushed the floor buttons.
She was headed to floor #2.
The man to floor #8.
I was going to seven.
I'm not going to sugar coat this.... I get elevator anxiety. I smell things, I hear things and I often stifle giggles (thinking almost automatically about an old Peter Seller's "Pink Panther" movie, see clip below, tee- hee) ...
I look around so as not to look around...kwim?
A ride that far in an elevator is usually excruciating (at best) for someone like me.
I notice (while NOT looking around) that the man is a doctor...a Podiatrist.
I almost want to take this opportunistic moment to ask him about my barking dogs.
Since the elevator appeared to be stopping at every floor I had lots of time to try and get up my nerve.
I glanced over at him and noticed that he was looking down.
It didn't matter who was getting on or off that elevator the doctor was busy with his eyes elsewhere.
I followed his stare and it stopped at my feet.
I wondered if he could just somehow "tell" that I had foot problems.
Were there telltale signs that an expert could spot...?
His gaze didn't appear official.
Maybe he was thinking about how goofy and ugly my feet were...?
My initial response was to hide my toes... the more he stared the more I tried to nonchalantly curl them up under my sandal straps.
The harder I drew them in and up the more I felt a charley horse cramp beginning to creep into the bottom of my bad foot.
Suddenly I got the feeling that this guy was a bit of an odd ball.
Suddenly I got the feeling that he didn't find my feet repulsive at all....
Suddenly I got the feeling that I was on the elevator with a Podiatrist with a foot obsession.
And not in a professional way.
When I stumbled off on the 7th floor I wanted to find a place to wash my feet... they felt dirtier and uglier than usual.
I'm not joking when I say I felt totally violated.
On a lighter note... (please turn up your volume and listen carefully)
Posted by Koby at 7:37 AM